


Mr Holmes and the Captain

by out_there



Series: The Lydia Chronicles [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pirate, M/M, Mystrade on the High Seas, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pirate Captain Lestrade, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 11:50:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14496351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: After escaping an arranged marriage, and the future planned for him, Mycroft Holmes sails aboard the Lydia with his lover, Captain Gregory Lestrade. His wayward younger brother, Sherlock, may be suited to a life of piracy, but Mycroft has always been more comfortable hiding behind books and charts. Can he find a home amongst the crew?





	Mr Holmes and the Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my cheerleaders, Celli and Misbegotten, who cheered this on as it was written in dribs and drabs. Thanks to Tehomet for betaing. Thanks to everyone on tumblr who showed such enthusiasm and made me feel very welcome, especially @egmon73, @ngaijuuyan and @lilynevin. (This fic marks my entrance to tumblr, as out-there-tmblr if anyone’s curious.)

The first three weeks of sailing entails a procession of sea burials. Thankfully, they're not for men Mycroft personally knows, but for the injured survivors of the Imperium. He attends each funeral and echoes each prayer, feeling the keen sting of responsibility as another canvas-covered body slides overboard, splashing into the sea beneath.

There are still some survivors in the infirmary, keeping Doctor White and Watson -- and Sherlock by extension -- below decks, and out of sight. Mycroft visited once and saw the men covered in bandages, the burnt and ruined skin hidden. The three of them had the situation under control. There was no need for him to be there, other than his own paltry guilt.

That guilt is the worst type of self-indulgence. Faced with the same situation, he would choose no differently. 

Other than that, the journey towards Barbados has been easy. No foul weather, no unforeseen mishaps. The new men have learned their tasks, and work beside the old hands without any squabbles.

Mycroft feels uneasy with the peace. He feels unnerved by the funerals and can't believe the men around him can ignore such morbid things. Surely they must feel as uncertain and adrift as he does. Mycroft comforts himself with the thought that once Watson is less needed below, once Sherlock returns to the deck, this calm tranquility will be gone.

He's not sure if the captain shares his discomfort or if he is simply very good at reading Mycroft's feelings. Either way, Lestrade seems to know when the deaths sit heavy on Mycroft's conscience. When Mycroft has no appetite for lust, when he hungers only for comfort, Lestrade seems to know it before Mycroft himself. Those are the nights he will reach out across the table, cup a hand around Mycroft's wrist or cheek. Those are the nights he will lead Mycroft to bed with gentle, hushed words; will brush a kiss to Mycroft's forehead or cheek; will hold him firmly and not hint at anything more.

If Mycroft didn't need the reassurance so desperately, he would bristle at it. He would object to the careful treatment, would insist that he didn't need coddling like a child. If it were anyone else, Mycroft wouldn't let himself hide in another's embrace. He would keep them at arm's length, ensure they never knew him well enough to come within striking distance, were never close enough for a betrayal to hurt.

But when Gregory wraps his arms around Mycroft, when Gregory presses soothing words and soft kisses into his hair, Mycroft knows there's no safer place in the world.

***

Mycroft checks their bearings and updates the ship's log with their location, but it's the work of a few minutes every few hours. It's far from arduous and it leaves him with too much time on his hands.

He's tried wandering below decks, but the crew's conversation falls silent when Mycroft draws near. So instead he reads their body language and expressions. He watches the crew around Lestrade, searching for signs that Williams' concerns are coming to pass, but the men clearly trust and respect their captain.

When it comes to Mycroft, their opinions are familiar enough to bring their own strange comfort. Distrust and ill-ease when they see him, not strong enough to be a personal dislike, but impersonal and unimpressed.

He's never been foolish enough to aspire to popularity; he lacks the natural charm to achieve it and has never wasted his time learning such ephemeral skills. In London, where he dressed as everyone else and was unmemorable in a crowd, he was never particularly liked. On this ship, he’s more easily recognised -- in breeches and embroidered waistcoat while the rest of the men wear sturdy trousers and shirts, sitting on the quarterdeck sketching while the men haul ropes and let out sails -- but there’s no reason for him to be liked any better.

So he watches their course. He helps Williams keep count in the store room and monitor provisions. The rest of the time he spends reading in his cabin or sketching on deck, in solitude or in the captain's steady company. He takes comfort from the crew’s respect for Lestrade and does his best to avoid talking to any of them.

***

There were seven of the Imperium's crew who refused to turn pirate. After spending dark, miserable weeks in the brig, three changed their minds and joined the crew. Of a dozen ailing men taken onboard, there are four still in the infirmary, struggling against burns and fractured bones, the threat of infection and sepsis.

Mycroft's surprised to find it still keeps Sherlock occupied. He would have thought his impatient little brother would have been bored by now but when he stops by the infirmary, he finds Sherlock and Watson standing shoulder to shoulder, scraping pieces of bark -- arrowroot and witch hazel, Mycroft surmises -- into small bowls.

“Afternoon, Mr Holmes,” Watson says, pausing in his task to give Mycroft a nod. Sherlock, of course, is far less well mannered.

“Yes?” Sherlock demands, not looking away from the scalpel in his hands. “Do you need something, Mycroft?”

“Nothing in particular,” Mycroft replies coolly, and to Watson adds, “Good afternoon, Mr Watson. I hope my brother has shown you more civility.”

From Watson's amused grin, Mycroft surmises that Sherlock's been his usual self but Watson doesn't overly mind. “Nothing's been stained or caught fire, so Sherlock's experiments have been successful so far.”

“Experiments?”

“Extract of witch hazel,” Sherlock says. “How to improve the concentration through available processes.”

Sherlock has always enjoyed the sciences, especially chemistry. This is a most practical application of those skills: something that will help the current injured and all future patients. “That's very admirable.”

Now Sherlock looks up sharply. He watches Mycroft suspiciously, until determining that Mycroft was being honest. When he turns back to his work, Mycroft can see the pleased creases around his eyes, the proud tilt of his mouth. “Given the Lydia's limited resources, it's irresponsible to use such a wasteful process.”

***

Mycroft's head is bent over the table when the captain walks in. He's midway through a list of all the things he'd like to purchase when they finally land. He doesn't know what the local cost will be, but he already suspects it will be more than he can raise.

“What's that?” Lestrade asks, stopping by Mycroft's chair. He rests a warm hand on Mycroft's shoulder. “A shopping list?”

“Sherlock will need clothes. We both will.” Mycroft eyes the few valuables he brought from Musgrave Hall: his father's gold pocket watch, his mother's silver brush and mirror, his grandmother's string of pearls. Trinkets in terms of the Holmes fortune but now it's all that he and Sherlock possess, other than the clothes they both wear and a handful of books Mycroft doesn't want to part with.

He resolves to look through them in the next few weeks. Possibly there is a book or two that he could bear to lose.

“I'll sell a few things when we get to shore.” Mycroft waves a tired hand at the items on the table. “There will be enough for the essential items.”

Lestrade takes a seat beside him. “Our hull is full of Spanish gold. There's no need to sell anything.”

“Given that Sherlock and I joined after that was taken, neither of us has any claim on that gold.”

“I do,” Lestrade says. Perhaps he has grown to understand Mycroft too well; before Mycroft can thank him for the offer and politely decline, Lestrade sighs. “Your husband would have paid for your clothing. And your brother's too, if there was a need for it. You can't deny that, Fancy.”

“I wouldn't try to. But it's also true that you haven't married me,” Mycroft says firmly.

“I don't see what difference that makes.”

“There are names,” Mycroft says, “for a person who shares a man's bed and then takes payment for it.”

Lestrade frowns, conceding the point. “You know I would happily give you the funds?”

“I dislike the idea of being purchased and paid for.” Mycroft glances down at the table, not wanting to give offence but wanting to be plain. It feels like hypocrisy, given that his marriage to Magnussen would have been precisely that, but what he shares with Lestrade shouldn't have any similarities with what that marriage would have been. That was obligation and fear of reprisals; this is a choice Mycroft freely made, eyes open to the consequences.

“You may not view it that way,” Mycroft tries by way of apology, “but I prefer to consider myself a member of your crew, one who chooses to spend nights in your company.”

Lestrade's fingers tangle in Mycroft's. “If you insist, I won't talk you out of it, but you should see Williams.”

“Why?”

As Lestrade explains it, Williams manages the records of what each man is owed, and he also runs a small store that sells to the crew on account. “Usually just the essentials,” he says, “tobacco, whiskey, a few bits of clothing. But we'll also pay men for goods that can be sold onshore and negotiate a better price than a dozen men selling separately.”

There's a sharp dismay at the idea of the items being sold on board, the possibility of seeing his father's pocket watch in one of the crew's hands. It's foolish. The items will be sold. Someone else will hold them and own them, regardless of whether or not Mycroft's there to see it. He doesn't have the luxury of making these decisions based on sentiment and nostalgia.

“I will,” Mycroft promises, “when we're closer to shore.”

It's only delaying the distasteful necessity. The items will be sold and Mycroft will have fewer keepsakes of Musgrave Hall. He gathers the items up and tucks them back into the drawer that has somehow become his. It's mostly empty but it's his nonetheless.

“Or there's another option,” Lestrade says behind him and Mycroft turns to find Gregory wearing a mischievous smile. 

“Another way to sell the items? A market onshore?”

“There's a market, but there's also a small church,” Lestrade says. “A local priest. We could easily be married.”

Mycroft's breath catches. He's caught between a giddy joy that Gregory would suggest marriage and the dismaying knowledge that Mycroft will refuse him. Wedding vows are until death, not until Mycroft's mercurial younger brother declares this life boring and insists on a change. The idea of tying Gregory to him and keeping him close is very appealing, but if Sherlock should need him… It's unfair to make a promise he knows he might not keep.

Mycroft could make light of the situation, let it be a joke between them but he knows it wasn't. He knows Lestrade's offer was genuine. The man deserves an honest answer.

His thoughts must show because Gregory watches him, and that teasing smile slowly falls from his face. “Fancy?”

“I'm sorry,” Mycroft says, desperately meaning it and hoping Lestrade can tell. “I can't.”

Gregory is a brave man, brave enough to look Mycroft in the eye and ask, “Why not?”

“It's not a lack of feeling.” Mycroft stands there awkwardly, wanting to step closer to Gregory, to drop his head to Gregory's shoulder and feel those strong arms around him. He wants to be soothed, he wants Gregory to make this easier on him; it's such a dreadful, selfish urge.

“Then what is it? You don't want to marry a wanted man?”

“It's hardly ideal,” Mycroft replies archly.

“But it's not the real reason,” Lestrade counters. “And I know you love me.”

“I do. If I were to marry anyone, it would be you. You and no-one else.” It's true for many reasons. After sharing Lestrade's bed, it would be impossible for Mycroft to make the good, advantageous marriage that he should. But Mycroft knew that when he climbed under the covers and part of him welcomed it. A simple, clear declaration of his affections. “Perhaps you could ask me in a few years' time?”

Lestrade reaches over, cups Mycroft's cheek in one warm, dry palm. “What will change in a few years?”

“Sherlock will be older,” Mycroft says and Lestrade looks surprised, and then his face softens in understanding. “Sixteen is too young to be alone in the world.”

There are men on the Lydia who left families behind at eight or twelve. Who have worked and risked their lives and become men far too young. But they were not Mycroft's younger brother. They were not Sherlock, so terribly clever and so unthinkingly sheltered from the world. 

Lestrade doesn't argue that Sherlock is old enough to marry and should be old enough to leave and live as he wishes. No, Lestrade only says, “He's happy here.”

“For now. But if that changes, I can't guarantee I would choose my husband over my brother. Not while he's still so young.”

Lestrade presses a soft kiss to Mycroft's cheek. “I can wait.”

***

The peace of late morning is shattered by the cabin door swinging open to reveal Sherlock.

“This is the captain's quarters,” Mycroft chides gently. He finds a marker for his page and then closes the book he had been reading. “You are expected to knock before entering.”

Sherlock frowns at him. Sherlock has never been blessed with an abundance of patience but lately, he's had absolutely no patience for Mycroft. He's short with Mycroft, annoyed even when there's no cause for offence. Mycroft has noticed the change, even if he has no insight into its cause.

He would worry but he's seen Sherlock climbing the rigging with Watson, stepping along the mast with a careless grin and wide-armed gesture. Sherlock isn't unhappy here, it's something specific to Mycroft.

Sherlock sighs as if Mycroft's very presence is a personal hardship. “Where is Lestrade?” 

“In the powder room with Williams,” Mycroft replies. “Checking pistols, I believe.”

“And you clearly couldn't help with that,” Sherlock mutters but at least he closes the door behind him. Mycroft eyes the closed door and considers following. He's quite sure Sherlock will be more amenable if Mycroft isn't there.

Reaching for his book, he finds his place and continues reading.

***

Mycroft rolls his eyes as the door opens again, marking his place with a scrap of fabric. When Lestrade steps inside, he feels the smile sneak onto his face.

Lestrade raises both brows. “Not who you were expecting, Fancy?”

“Sherlock was looking for you.”

“Yes, he had an idea about the rigging that I agreed to consider. Might be worth trying but doesn't hurt anyone to think it over first.”

Mycroft can see the wisdom in that. Respond too quickly to Sherlock's ideas and he'll only be back with something new in the morning. “Probably for the best. Sherlock can be impulsive when following a logical solution.”

“Whereas you,” Gregory says, dropping into a chair by Mycroft, “prefer to consider the consequences first.”

“When life allows it.” He does not always have the time or information to make informed choices, but he prefers it when he can. “I suspect Sherlock prefers the excitement of not knowing what will happen next.”

“Lord save us from such excitement,” Gregory mutters, voice a shade too fond to be convincing.

***

There's something strange when Mycroft wakes. At first, he thinks it's the heavy arm thrown over his waist, the captain still lying beside him despite the late hour. Not that he minds. He could happily wake each day in Gregory's arms if that didn't also entail being awake before dawn.

Usually, he wakes to empty bed rather than Gregory's broad chest to his back and Gregory's strong arms wrapped around him. It takes him a moment to realise that's not the cause of his misgiving. Something else feels strange.

The ship seems a little quiet, less muffled yelling and scurrying footsteps, but the Lydia's been quiet before. No, it's something else. Something related to the rocking of the hull on the waves below them, something different.

Mycroft frowns in concentration, trying to weave the small observations into a coherent explanation. 

“We're becalmed,” Gregory mutters against his back, words mumbled into skin. “Might as well sleep.”

Mycroft understands the concept -- the winds dying down until there's not enough breeze to move the ship -- but he doesn't understand Lestrade's calm acceptance. A ship is built to sail the waters, not be trapped motionless on a smooth sea.

If they were close to land, they could send off row boats to ferry men and provisions as required. Possibly, they could use ropes to tow the Lydia into port. But Mycroft knows they're two weeks sail from the nearest shore. Towing the ship would be infeasible given the weight of the boat and the number of men (or more accurately the number of oars). If he factors in the resistance of inertia and the need to turn the ship to make land, it would be two months at least.

He should go to the storeroom and see what provisions they have. At last check, it was four weeks' worth but it would be best to know. 

He sits up but Lestrade's hand catches on his elbow, stopping him. Mycroft glances over in surprise.

Gregory lies on his side, dark hair loose over the pillow. His smile is sleepy and warm. “Stay in bed with me.”

“I want to confirm a few details,” Mycroft says quietly, not wanting to wake Gregory any more than necessary. “That's all.”

“But I'm here. And you're here...”

Mycroft considers objecting but Gregory tightens his grip on Mycroft's arm and tugs him closer. Mycroft follows willingly, lets Gregory pull him back down to the mattress. He settles on his side and Gregory leans forward to reward him with a soft, sleepy kiss. It rather matches Gregory's smile. 

“We're becalmed. Nothing needs to be done about it.”

“There's no harm in having a contingency plan in place,” Mycroft replies. “If it should continue, it would be best to know what our choices are before we have to make them.”

“It will last a few days and we have plenty of provisions. It's not worth worrying over.”

He's often been told not to worry, not to fret over things that might never happen; usually, those very things happen exactly as he'd expected. Mycroft frowns, trying not to disregard Gregory's advice merely from habit. “You seem very certain of that.”

Gregory laughs. “Call it experience. No matter how much we may wish it, the world will not stay still for long.”

A pleasant companion would take that at face value, would be reassured enough to smile and flirt. Mycroft has always been far more practical than pleasant. “And if it lasts longer than three days?”

“Then we can take stock of our options,” Gregory says, “and if it lasts a week, we'll take action.”

It's an acceptable compromise. “Thank you.”

“But until then, Fancy, we have hours and very few responsibilities.” Gregory's arms wrap around him, pulling him closer. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

***

By midday, Mycroft insists they get dressed. His lips feel tender from kissing, and there's a dark red mark on his hip that's bound to bruise, but Gregory argues for staying in bed. Not in words, but in gestures. He leans over Mycroft and smiles, teasing and inviting. His fingers drift up and down Mycroft's chest, toying with damp chest hair and dragging over skin; hinting at sneaking lower as their feet tangle beneath the blanket.

Mycroft is tempted. He doesn't think there's a man alive who wouldn't be tempted by the flattering hunger in Gregory's eyes, but he's also sweaty. The longer he lies here, the more disgusting he feels. Even Gregory's most charming smiles can't match the simple appeal of being clean again.

Gregory may sigh and pretend to pout, may catch Mycroft's hand and promise him rubies and gold for only another hour beneath the blankets, but he does rise and eventually face the day.

On deck, there are men sitting in loose groups around piles of ropes. They talk and laugh, knife in one hand and ropes held deftly in the other. There are usually men in the rigging but today the sails have been drawn up and the masts are bare. High above them, the black flag of piracy hangs limply, defeated by the lack of breeze.

“What are they doing?” Mycroft asks quietly. He can feel himself stand straighter, elbows tucked in tightly and chin raised. For a moment, he regrets leaving the cabin. There, he only feels self-conscious when he catches Gregory looking at him with admiration or when Gregory ghosts fingers along his cheek and calls him pretty; when he whispers, “Fancy,” as if Mycroft is precious and beloved.

“Checking the ropes. We have the time,” Lestrade says, looking around his ship with pride. “Best to mend if needed, or pull it apart if it's beyond saving.”

The men are relaxed and jovial. It's obvious that the ship has stopped moving but no-one seems concerned. Even Watson, who Mycroft usually looks to as a gauge of the average sailor, is leaning back against the hull, fingers pulling strands of rope apart and smiling as Sherlock tells him something. Something related to one of his science classes, Mycroft guesses based on Sherlock's animated gestures and careful mine of tipping a beaker. Whatever it is, it has Watson nodding along, his eager attention entirely focused on Sherlock.

Looking around the deck, all Mycroft sees are skilled hands and a relaxed camaraderie. There's no place for him here. He has neither the skills nor the easy manners to be accepted into their fold.

While Mycroft stands back, Lestrade steps forward. He walks around the groups, stopping to talk with the men. Here, he's “captain” and “sir”, quick with an approving nod or an encouraging comment. A commander who can laugh with his men and care about them, and still lead them into a fight if necessary. He carries the weight of the ship on his broad shoulders and still manages a quick grin or two.

Mycroft allows himself a few moments to watch Lestrade, to enjoy seeing how well the men respond to him, and then he slips into the navigation room. Surely he can find something useful to do there.

***

The rhythm of a becalmed ship is strange and slow. There's a drowsiness to it all, a dawdling approach to the daily tasks. The crew spend their time lounging around the decks in the sunshine, talking and singing sea shanties, mending clothes or engraving scrimshaws. Watson's teaching the skill to Sherlock, the pair of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, heads drawn together as Watson carefully carves into the bone.

Sometimes the pair of them might as well be conjoined twins. It feels as if Mycroft never sees his brother these days without Watson being a half step away. It's not that Mycroft objects to Watson. To be honest, he rather likes Watson's capable and sensible nature, his respect for knowledge and his curiosity. He's a good choice to befriend. His concern is that Sherlock might tie himself too closely to Watson's company. That it will end badly and Sherlock will be bereft, left adrift without his new constant companion.

Mycroft would say something if his own behaviour wasn't so woefully similar. He's well aware that on a ship of over a hundred, he can count on one hand the number of people he's spoken to at any length. But Mycroft has always been a creature of solitude, happy with his own company. Sherlock thrives on the attention of others. Watson's constant attention pleases him too much to be lost without mourning. 

As there's no way to warn Sherlock without ruining his current happiness, Mycroft holds his tongue. He spends most of his time in the navigation room, indexing the Lydia's haphazard collection of charts. He's been studying them, making notes on which maps contain inaccuracies, rearranging them into some semblance of order.

The rest of his time is spent in bed with Gregory.

***

Given Sherlock's impatience with inactivity, Mycroft is unsurprised to find him directing a gun crew on the galley. If anything, he's surprised it took Sherlock three days before resorting to some shared madness.

“Precisely what are you doing?” Mycroft asks, loud and sharp enough to be heard over the buzz of activity.

“Williams said I could,” Sherlock replies. He waves Mycroft away, looking over a small ledger with scribbled notes before striding over to the cannon. Mycroft glances over at the page. It's filled with Sherlock's scrawled figures, amount of powder and weight of shots, trajectory angles and expected distances.

Mycroft studies it for a moment. “You're experimenting to find the furthest distance our cannons can shoot?”

“It's useful information, Mycroft.” Sherlock frowns at him but the effect is spoiled by a stray curl of dark hair falling over his face. Sherlock tucks it behind an ear and adds, “More useful than memorising books of philosophy.”

Mycroft chooses to consider the positives: Sherlock's remark proves that he's noticed the book Mycroft is currently reading. Sherlock may not spend a great deal of time with him, but Sherlock has still paid attention. “Since Williams has approved, I'll watch from the decks.”

On his way up, he stops at the captain's cabin and collects his sketchbook and ink. It's an easy thing to jot down Sherlock's scenarios, to translate weight and force into motion and distance. The second option will work best but Sherlock would never take his word for it. Sherlock has a scientific mind; he needs to prove his hypotheses before he'll believe them.

On the deck, Lestrade is leaning by the rigging, talking to a few of the men. Heads bowed and shoulders turned towards each other, Mycroft can read too much in the twists of their bodies. Fear and worry, something personal that they don't want overheard. A ducked head of deference to Lestrade's opinion, a hesitant nod that suggests faith in Lestrade and his ability to solve the dilemma.

Mycroft finds a place to sit on the quarterdeck and starts sketching. It takes over twenty minutes for Lestrade's shadow to fall over his shoulder. By that time, Mycroft has a diagram of the ship sketched, with faint lines showing the expected paths of cannon fire and careful distances written beside each.

“What's that?” the captain asks, leaning closer. 

There is no reason for Mycroft to smile at the interruption, but he does. “Sherlock's experiment. You are aware of it?”

“Never hurts to get some extra practice at the guns.” Lestrade traces the sketched line of the Lydia's bow with one careful finger. “So what's this?”

“What the results will be.” Mycroft adds a few final lines and then carefully tears the page free. He doesn't want to suffer the fit of pique that will result if Sherlock sees it. Sherlock would think Mycroft was interfering or spoiling his fun.

He's about to crumple the page when Lestrade presses a hand against his. “Don't you want to see if you're right?” Lestrade asks, fingers curled gently over the back of Mycroft's knuckles.

“I know I'm right.”

“Doesn't it get dull,” Lestrade smiles, stepping closer, “being right about everything?”

“Not everything.” Mycroft sighs. “A mathematical calculation is simple. People are not.”

Lestrade steps closer, slides his hand around to sneak two fingers under the cotton of Mycroft's cuff. “In some ways, people are very simple,” Lestrade says, brushing two fingertips along the sensitive skin of Mycroft's inner wrist.

A few nights ago, there was a dark bruise there, left by Gregory's sharp teeth and sinfully warm mouth. Mycroft can feel himself colour at the memory: Gregory's body pressed against his, knee and hip and chest; the way he'd gasped at a gentle kiss dropped to his wrist; the way Gregory had so ruthlessly used that advantage, used lips and teeth and tongue until Mycroft was panting, fingers of his free hand clawed into Gregory's back.

“Don't be so indiscreet,” Mycroft says, wishing he sounded disapproving rather than breathless.

At least Lestrade withdraws his fingers. “I didn't mean to vex you.”

Mycroft nods in acknowledgement. He knows his standard of decorum and privacy are not shared by the rest of the ship. He's quite sure Lestrade would embrace him -- or even kiss him -- in front of his crew without any apologies or shame. Mycroft has lived too many years in Sherrinford's shadow to shake off his habitual discretion: displaying how much you care for something feels like asking the world to take it away.

“Are you sure you're right?” Lestrade asks, looking over the page again.

“Quite certain.”

“Then you don't need to stay here to watch it.” Lestrade's suggestive smile makes his next offer predictable. “We could retire for a while.”

Predictable but not unwelcome.

***

On the fourth day, Mycroft insists on a stock take. Gregory laughs and tries to tug him back to bed, tries to catch him with arms around his waist and sweet kisses to his neck, but Mycroft insists. Despite his earlier teasing, Gregory volunteers to help.

They're down in the storeroom, checking barrels against Williams' last tally. The lantern above their head swings. Lestrade looks up at the ceiling and smiles.

Mycroft marks the current barrel and then asks, “What is it?”

“Listen.”

Mycroft can hear the creak of wood and the low shushing waves outside. He can hear muffled footsteps and a distant shout. He can hear the rustle of sails caught in the wind. “The wind?”

“We are no longer becalmed,” Gregory says brightly. He does not boast about being right, does not mock Mycroft for his unsubstantiated fears. He does not, in any way, claim an intellectual victory and for that alone Mycroft closes the few steps between them and presses a kiss to Gregory's cheek. It feels scandalously bold, although the storeroom door is closed.

Mycroft's sure his cheeks are a blotchy red when he steps back.

“What was that for?” Gregory asks softly.

“For being right.”

***

All too soon, land looms on the distant horizon. Mycroft can't forestall the inevitable any longer.

He gathers his father's gold watch, his mother's silver brush set and his grandmother's pearls. He folds them inside a shirt and carries the small bundle to Williams' quarters.

He raps swiftly on the door and reminds himself that these are goods to be traded. There is no currency to memories. He may look at the watch and remember his father's moustache, remember how he'd frown and the befuddled way he'd always be surprised by time passing, but the memories will remain without the item. He doesn't need a silver brush to remember his mother's fine fingers, the graceful way she'd brush her blonde hair over one shoulder. He doesn't need a string of pearls to remember his grandmother's shrewd gaze and the smell of lilac and lavender that followed her.

These are items to be bartered because Sherlock needs new shoes and they need more than three shirts between them. Practical concerns must outweigh mere sentimentality.

Williams' room is smaller than Lestrade's, but not by much. It has a bed and a basin, a small desk against the wall and a smaller window. Like Lestrade's, the furnishings are practical but worn. There is also a small portrait of a young girl holding a dark-haired child, fastened to the wall with hooks and twine to stop it falling in bad weather. Her dress is out of fashion by only a few years and the unstudied pose makes Mycroft think daughter, not wife. Such a pride of place makes it clear Williams must hold her very dear.

Mycroft doesn't comment on the picture. People rarely appreciate when others notice what they prize. Instead, he keeps to the point of the visit.

“The captain said you buy and sell items on the crew's behalf,” he says as he sets down his parcel. “I have a few things to be sold on shore.”

In the end, he manages a fair price. Less than he would get at private sale in London, but more than a penny lane pawn shop would give him. Enough, Mycroft estimates, for shoes, shirts and a good winter coat for Sherlock. Otherwise, he's bound to climb the mizzenmast in a threadbare jacket, no matter the weather.

***

Barbados seems impossible, something from a wild and fanciful tale. The island is all lush greens and sparkling white sand. Mycroft has read descriptions of flora and fauna, of clear waters and economies based on trade and plantations, but something was lost in those narrations. The vivid colours and the warm breeze are beguiling from a distance and almost magical as they sail closer.

He's not the only man standing on deck watching the island pass by. Even the men who aren't supposed to be working are watching the cove grow closer.

“I'm surprised you're not sketching it,” Sherlock says beside him.

Mycroft ignores his snide tone. “I fear I wouldn't do it justice.”

“So you won't even try?”

Mycroft stifles the sigh he wants to give for Sherlock's petulance. “So my time would be better spent appreciating it.”

***

They sail past the capital, small as she is, and turn into Oistins Bay. If the capital was small compared to London, this is barely more than a village. A dozen businesses surrounded by dirt roads and modest cottages, but the port is surprisingly large. There are already three other ships docked there, all of them larger than the Lydia.

The captain calls out orders and brings them into port. It seems as if every man is pulling ropes or guiding sails, or climbing up on the rigging to do check knots. They all know their place and know what must be done, while Mycroft watches from the quarterdeck.

When the Lydia is anchored, Lestrade exchanges a few words with Williams and then takes a small purse down to meet the dock master. None of the crew step forward to follow him so Mycroft doesn't either.

By the quick nod Lestrade gives him as he passes, it was the right action.

The dock master is short and stout, with a habit of anchoring his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket and rolling back on his heels to compensate for his own inadequacies. There is a sly cast to his face when Lestrade waves the purse before him, and eager nodding before Lestrade hands the coins over. It's a short negotiation and soon the captain is back on deck.

“We'll anchor here tonight,” Lestrade calls put and the men cheer as if this should be celebrated. “Dry dock tomorrow so I expect those on first watch to show up with clear heads. The rest of you -- don't forget which ship you belong to!”

There's a sudden stampede of men clamouring below decks, catcalling about what to spend their coin on first (the choice, apparently, is wine or easy companionship). Mycroft has to step through the confusion to find Sherlock standing at the bow. For once, Watson isn't beside him.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft calls over the moving crowd and Sherlock pretends that he can't hear the call.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says once he's close enough to wrap a hand around Sherlock's arm and force him to acknowledge Mycroft's existence. “When are you on duty tomorrow?”

“Third watch,” Sherlock replies sharply.

“Then you can come ashore with me tomorrow morning.”

“Why?” Sherlock looks him up and down as if the answer is written in Mycroft's clothes. “Surely the captain's not too busy to indulge you on a shopping trip?”

“While I'm sure he could find the time,” Mycroft replies with his annoyance hidden as well as he can, “he will not be able to confirm the size of your feet. If you want shoes that aren't pinching, you'll come with me tomorrow.”

Sherlock frowns, but Mycroft knows that frown. It's the frown of being outplayed, of knowing he's forced to do something he'd rather avoid. “I'll meet you at the dock at nine-thirty.”

“Very well.”

***

The shoes Sherlock has been wearing have nearly worn through the soles. They were old and scuffed when Sherlock obtained them, whatever that involved, and soon will not be wearable. So Mycroft starts with footwear.

The shopping expedition goes as well as Mycroft expected. Sherlock is unwilling and prone to dramatic sighing to signal how terribly bored he is; he only seems engaged when he's stubbornly insisting on impractical choices.

Mycroft can only be thankful that Watson suggested this store. From the street, the foyer seems small and unwelcoming but past that initial impression, there's a large collection of clothes and shoes in the back room. It's mostly the practical, sturdy clothes that sailors prefer and therefore a perfect selection for Sherlock.

Mycroft passes Sherlock a pair of brown shoes. “Try these on.”

“They have brass buckles,” Sherlock replies, refusing to take them from Mycroft's hand. He is currently modelling a far more attractive pair -- glossy black leather and bright silver buckle, even the stacked heel is covered in leather -- but it's clear they're a tight fit.

“If you grow so much as an inch taller, you will not fit those shoes.”

In comparison, the shoes in Mycroft's grasp are plain. The leather is a dull brown, the brass buckle proves they've been made with economy in mind and the heel is wooden. However the stitches are small and deft, and the leather is supple and well treated. They will last longer than the glossy pair Sherlock prefers.

“Please be sensible, Sherlock.”

“I want these ones,” Sherlock replies, the same way he has ordered and demanded clothing for most of his life. The difference is that they no longer have the Holmes' fortune to pay for any indulgence.

Clearly, Mycroft thinks, Sherlock hadn't considered all the implications of running away to sea. He still appreciates that Sherlock came -- after all, Mycroft wouldn't have his current freedom if Sherlock hadn't risked so much on an impulsive idea -- and it's enough to give him patience.

“These will last better in the salt water,” he explains. “And brass buckles may not be ideal but they will do the job. After all, John Watson wears them.”

Mentioning Watson feels like an underhanded tactic, but it works. Sherlock takes the shoes and deigns to try them on.

After that, it's a new set of clothes for Sherlock. A clean waistcoat that doesn't harbour a dozen unknown stains. A short jacket made of linen, lighter than his current wool jacket, which isn't suited to this weather. Mycroft tries to suggest fitted breeches but Sherlock scoffs and insists on the loose slops worn by the other sailors, the wide legs falling midway down Sherlock's calves. Sherrinford would have a fit at the thought of one of his brothers dressing in such an outlandish fashion. That thought alone is enough to make Mycroft agree and offer to buy Sherlock a second pair if needed.

After that, it's three new shirts -- a thin wool, and two cotton -- new neckerchiefs, new stockings and smallclothes. Mycroft has the shop owner wrap it all into neat parcels and tally the cost as they go.

When he suggests a good winter coat in case they sail to much colder climes, Sherlock takes it a challenge. He starts searching through the rails of clothes, hunting through clothes ten years out of style. Mycroft uses the brief respite to select a new shirt and a few underthings for himself. He lets his fingers brush longingly over a fine cotton cravat, but he already owns one. One that has been torn in two and artlessly sewn back together with own stitches -- they drunkenly veer from left to right, the fabric stretched in places and unevenly gathered in others -- but the mending cannot be seen if he folds the cravat precisely.

There's a victorious cry from the back of the room. Sherlock emerges from a pile of fabric holding a dark frock coat aloft. It's made of thick indigo wool, lined in fine cotton, and the buttons are covered in the same dark fabric as the coat. It's an old-fashioned style, but it fits well across Sherlock's shoulders and flares from his hips to his knees. There is a high collar that reaches past Sherlock's jawline and would protect him from the cold.

There are hints of silver thread in the embroidery that swirls along the cuffs and down either side of the single row of buttons. At one time, the embroidery was bright red, pale yellow and silver, a sharp contrast against the deep blue wool. Now the threads have faded but the coat was once expensive and well made.

It's a good coat and it looks good on Sherlock: draws attention to the high curve of cheekbones and shockingly dark hair, makes his skin look porcelain pale and his eyes an eerie shade of grey. As soon as Mycroft sees him in it, he knows he'll buy it.

“You can have it, but only if you carry it and the rest of your clothes back to the ship.”

Sherlock grins and takes the wrapped packages in two arms. “I'll see you back there,” he says and leaves Mycroft to deal with the boring necessity of payment.

***

Mycroft finds himself with enough change to afford new breeches and jacket, but not sure if he needs it. When he fled the Imperium, he wore his winter coat and one of his travelling suits: a good sturdy brown wool, made to last the grime and wear of travel. Without embroidery or any particular flair, it is even plainer than the suits he'd wear to the Admiralty Board’s office in London.

In comparison, the waistcoat he wears with it is ostentatious. The periwinkle blue silk has a fine sheen that catches the light. There's wide embroidery down the front of it, sage green leaves twisting around buttons, fine scarlet flowers blooming with golden centres. Even at a ball at Musgrave Hall, this waistcoat would be noticed, would be considered proof of making a considerable effort to catch someone's attention.

Mycroft wore it when he left the Imperium because he remembered sitting on the captain's lap, remembered Lestrade's fingers toying with the hem of this waistcoat. Remembered the way Lestrade watched him in it, the hungry lust on his face. Even if Lestrade had been play-acting for someone else's benefit, wearing that waistcoat made Mycroft feel braver than he was, like he could be the kind of man that would catch Lestrade's eye.

While a linen jacket might be more practical in this weather, Mycroft has never suffered greatly from the heat and unlike Sherlock, he's more likely to sit in a shady spot on a hot day.

So he leaves the clothing store and wanders past the other shops. At the end of the street, there's a shop selling a variety of goods. Most of them seem previously owned but Mycroft spots an almost new set of drawing inks and steps inside to take a closer look.

For a moment, he considers trying something more than sketching -- something akin to watercolours, perhaps -- but he quickly realises he'd need canvas and easel, and it's bound to be messier than his pastels. He likes the convenience of sketching, being able to gather a book and a few things and draw whatever pleases him. It's become something he does for his own pleasure, rather than a way of recording his life for Sherlock's entertainment, and so the number of sketches of Lestrade are growing. It could be the captain on the deck, one arm holding fast to the railing as he laughs with the crew; it could be Gregory in bed, a loose sketch based on Mycroft's memory of the man lying beside him, blankets curled around his shoulders, face soft in sleep. But increasingly his sketchbook is filled with the man, every picture so obviously fond and infatuated.

It would be embarrassing if anyone else saw it.

Mycroft turns to go, and that's when he sees it. Up on a high shelf at the back of the store, there's an old violin standing in its case. The wood is dark and polished, but Mycroft can see the dust on it. He steps over to the counter and asks to inspect it.

It's not the same quality as Sherlock's violin back at Musgrave Hall. That had been made in Vienna by a famous carpenter, all so Sherrinford could show everyone that Holmes always had the best of everything. This violin is less graceful but it would hold a tune.

Better than that, it would give Sherlock the opportunity to play. Sherlock is a talented musician and he's always been able to lose himself in music, to close his eyes and let the music carry him somewhere no one else can touch. Mycroft has heard Sherlock's joy in delighted, jaunty tunes; he remembers Sherlock’s grief played in low, mournful cries after their parents died. It's spoken for Sherlock when words could not suffice.

Mycroft asks about the price and is quoted a ridiculous figure -- the cost of four winter coats! He manages to bargain and haggle the price down. He could still buy three coats with it but at least that price is affordable. Or it will be, after he's found a decent bookseller.

***

He spots Lestrade walking back to the docks. Walking ahead of Mycroft, on the other side of the lane but Mycroft knows that dark hat and green coat like he knows the width of Lestrade's shoulders. Mycroft hurries his steps to meet him.

As he gets closer, he notices that Lestrade seems distracted, eyes downcast and brows heavy, and Mycroft thinks twice about catching his attention. His company might not be welcome. The captain could have more important things on his mind than shopping trips and new clothes.

Then Lestrade glances up and sees him. He blinks once and then offers such a welcoming smile that Mycroft nods back and crosses the lane to walk together.

“Good afternoon, captain.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Holmes.” Lestrade nods, dark eyes sparkling with amusement. “For so much time spent shopping, you don't appear to have purchased much. I hope it was a successful venture.”

“It was.” The wrapped package in Mycroft's hands is a small thing, new shirt and stockings and not much more. “Sherlock carried most of it back to the Lydia.”

“You found everything you needed?”

Mycroft wonders if the captain is aware of slowing his pace to match Mycroft's steps, if such consideration is purposely shown or simply innate to the man's good nature.

“The necessities, yes.” Mycroft thinks of the violin with its dark, oiled curves; he thinks of the graceful melodies Sherlock will be able to coax from its old strings. “And one indulgence.”

“An indulgence?”

“As much as my books have ever been,” Mycroft replies. “I'll have to sell some of them tomorrow to afford it, but it's worth the trade.”

Lestrade's gaze is suddenly speculative. “Will you show me this indulgence of yours?”

Mycroft stops and Lestrade stops beside him. He looks back at the way they've come, the fifteen-minute walk back into the village or the twenty-minute walk back to the dock. “It's back in town. Shouldn't you return to the ship?”

“Williams will be moving her to the dry dock. The men know what they're doing.” Mycroft is uncertain but Lestrade weaves a hand beneath his elbow and gently leads them back toward the village. “And I would like to know what indulgence is more valuable than your books.”

Lestrade hooks his arm through Mycroft's, his palm resting on the back of Mycroft's hand. The sky is a cloudless blue, the sun is warm and the breeze is pleasantly fresh. If ever there was a day designed for courting and slow walks in good company, this would be it.

Mycroft shakes the foolish notion from his mind. “I never asked what drew you into town today.”

“Seeing the prisoners ashore,” Lestrade replies and Mycroft feels that same heavy lurch of guilt whenever he thinks of the Imperium and remembers the smoke and wreckage left by his own decisions. It passes quickly. “Leaving a man stranded without coin or a roof over his head… Why do it when we don't need to?”

“Are they staying on the Lydia?”

“We're not equipped to hold prisoners. Takes up too much space,” Lestrade replies, patting Mycroft's hand in a gesture that should be insultingly patronising. Mycroft can't work up the ire it truly deserves. “I talked to the innkeeper, paid a few weeks in advance. They'll be three to a bed, but it gives them time to find work.”

“And the injured?” Again, that brief stab of guilt but Mycroft doesn't let it show on his face. “Have you made plans for them?”

“Local doctor's coming out to see them tomorrow. We'll pay him to take care of them and give Doctor White his infirmary back.”

“Would you do the same if they were members of our crew?” Mycroft can too easily imagine Sherlock injured -- falling from the crows nest, crushed under the heavy anchor chains -- and he hates the idea of him being left at the next available port.

Lestrade shakes his head. “We'd keep them on board, return them to family if they wanted. Some of the men don't have family beyond the ship; it's kinder to let them die amongst friends than leave them to face that alone.”

Lestrade stops walking. He gives Mycroft's hand a squeeze and says, “There are deaths at sea, Fancy. You can't have a life of freedom without taking that risk. Anything worth having can be lost.”

For a moment, Mycroft stares at captivating dark eyes, at this man who wears his own beauty so easily and somehow finds a way to find decency in the rest of the world. Who can think of others and be kind. Who can be strong and good and nice, where Mycroft struggles to be one of those.

Mycroft is caught in a moment of wonder and then he hears himself say, “We have to walk into town and then to the dock. We won't get anywhere by standing here all day.” It’s far from the most gracious of comments.

But Lestrade just snorts and says, “Very well,” and they start walking again.

***

When Mycroft proudly shows his unexpected find, Lestrade frowns. Perhaps it's the price, Mycroft thinks, and hurriedly assures the captain that he's already talked to the store owner a street over and confirmed prices for his various books. He will be able to afford the purchase without relinquishing all of his small collection.

“And you can't deny that another source of music would be welcomed on the ship,” Mycroft points out. The crew are fond of singing shanties and Sherlock has always had an excellent ear for melody. He'd be playing along by the third verse.

It would give the crew an extra reason to appreciate Sherlock. Not that Sherlock seems to have much difficulty being accepted by the sailors -- his time spent with Watson seems to be by choice, not due to a lack of warmth from the others -- but there's no harm in adding incentive for Sherlock to be valued. 

It sounds cunning, but Mycroft is well practised at making his company easier to bear than his absence. At ensuring his company is tolerated if not welcomed. He can't help but see Sherlock's friendships through the same lens.

Lestrade looks at the violin again and still seems unconvinced. “I've never heard you sing along with the crew. I've never heard you hum.”

Mycroft's singing is much like his piano playing: adequate at most. He has sat in salons and watched others parade their talents for all to admire. He has learned not to display what he lacks. “And?”

“I didn't think you were particularly musical,” Lestrade says carefully, trying to gauge Mycroft's reaction without causing offence.

Mycroft realises the misunderstanding. It's his own fault. He was so pleased by his find that he didn't give Lestrade a full explanation. “It's for Sherlock. He is a truly gifted player.”

“Oh,” Lestrade says in relief as if it all makes sense. “I could believe that.”

Mycroft wonders for a moment what makes Lestrade say that, what action of Sherlock's made Lestrade assume he'd be musical. The captain tends to see his men clearly, tends to have a good idea of their natures and what drives them, but Mycroft's not entirely sure how he comes to those judgments. 

Mycroft doesn't ask for an explanation. It's too refreshing to have something unknown to him. “I'll bring the books in tomorrow and buy it then.”

“I could buy it for you now.”

Clearly, Lestrade must still have some of the ship's funds on him to make such an offer. It's considerate, but there was dust around the violin case the first time Mycroft saw it. It's not a popular item -- too expensive, and those who play usually own an instrument already -- so there's no real risk of it being sold before Mycroft returns tomorrow with the funds.

“No need. It won't be sold overnight and I'll have to return anyway to sell my books.”

“Let me buy it,” Lestrade says guilelessly. For a moment, he looks so innocent that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

It raises Mycroft's suspicions. “As what?”

“As a present.”

“It's not for me. It's something I want Sherlock to have.”

“It's something you want, regardless of the reason. Surely you can't object to a sweetheart's token.”

Mycroft is tempted. He can't help thinking of that battered tin of pastels and how dearly he treasures them, how he can't help but think of Lestrade every time he uses them. There's a greedy, covetous part of him -- a sly voice that sounds like Sherrinford -- that rejoices at the idea of keeping his books. That says: if Lestrade is happy to offer, shouldn't he take advantage and keep what's his?

“It's too expensive to be a token,” Mycroft says coolly. It's a foolish idea and there's no point letting himself indulge in it.

“A declaration, then. You know my intentions.” Stepping closer, dropping his voice low, Lestrade drops the pretence of innocence. They are the only two customers in the store but Mycroft is keenly aware of the shopkeeper standing behind his counter, pretending to ignore them as he polishes a set of silver cutlery.

Mycroft turns his head away from Gregory's searching gaze. His voice is little more than a whisper. “I refused you. There's no obligation, no promises you're honour-bound to keep.”

Mycroft keeps his head turned away and down, so he sees the slow movement of Gregory's hand rising and then pausing, changing directions to grip Mycroft's arm instead. “You said no one else but me. That you were not free to marry until your brother is older. That's not a refusal.”

“It's hardly an acceptance.” It feels unforgivable to bind Lestrade to him on such an impulsive offer. It feels like charity, a kindness he could not possibly repay.

But, he reminds himself, he can repay it. He knows how many books that violin would be worth. If Lestrade comes to regret his generosity, Mycroft can give him the books later. 

“A courting gift,” Mycroft offers as a compromise. “Not proof of engagement but, yes, a sign of your honourable intentions.”

Lestrade shakes his head, giving a soft chuckle. “Honestly, Fancy, you make me feel sorry for your past suitors. Have you ever let anyone ply you with trinkets?”

“Would you prefer I was more easily bought?” Mycroft asks sharply and Lestrade's eyes widen at his tone. Mycroft immediately regrets it. At times, he is as prickly as Lestrade claims. “I apologise. I don't mean to make things so difficult.”

“There's nothing wrong with a hard-won victory,” Lestrade says, low and serious.

“But it is unrealistic to expect someone to fight for you without growing weary of the effort.” Mycroft is not a prize worth such endless devotion.

Except, it seems, to Gregory. “You don't have to make anything easy for me.”

“How fortunate,” Mycroft replies wryly and it is only the quiet cough of the shopkeeper behind them that makes him aware of how close they are standing or that Lestrade's hand is still curved around his upper arm.

Lestrade has the nerve to give his bicep one last squeeze before removing his hand. “Let me purchase this and then we'll walk back to the ship together.”

***

The walk back to the ship is quiet but pleasant. Lestrade carries the violin case as if it weighs nothing -- claiming that Mycroft already has his parcel of clothes to carry, so he might as well take something -- and it gives Mycroft a strange glow of pleasure every time he spots it from the corner of his eye. It's a warm fluttering thing in his chest, flattered by Lestrade's persistent attention and such an obvious sign of it.

Part of him feels foolishly giddy, and the rest of him… The rest of him knows that only fools are carried away by flattery. Flower-strewn words and trinkets mean very little compared to necessity, and it is only the naive and stupid who believe them.

Yet he believes in Lestrade. He knows Gregory is an honest and honourable man.

It is a ridiculous quandary: to try not to believe a man he knows will keep his word. To feel himself so utterly smitten that he wants to step away, to keep Gregory at a distance that cannot hurt him. It's already too late for such defences, yet he keeps wanting to draw back out of reach.

He couldn't explain it if he tried, so he is grateful that Lestrade doesn't try to draw him into conversation. Instead, the walk back passes in sunlight and peace.

***

When they get back to the Lydia, she's in the dry dock, water draining slowly from around her. Beneath the waterline, her wooden sides are covered in barnacles and moss, growing a murky green along the hull. Clearly, there will be a lot of scrubbing and scraping in the next few days.

“How long will it take?” Mycroft asks and then realises he has not given enough context. “To clean her hull, I mean.”

“The men will work double shifts. We'll get it done in three days.” Lestrade looks to the clear horizon, eyes narrowed against the afternoon glare. “It's unlikely a naval vessel would come here, but dry dock leaves a ship too vulnerable. Better to get the work done quickly and then let the men enjoy time ashore.”

On deck, Sherlock and Watson are up in the rigging so Mycroft takes their purchases down to the cabin as Lestrade talks to Williams. He unwraps his clothes, folding them away in his mostly empty drawer. Then he sits at the table to read for a while before the evening meal.

Or he means to, but he's lulled to sleep by the soft rhythmic sound of the surf outside and the gentle creaking of the boat as she settles lower. He only closes his eyes in thought, and only for a moment, but the cabin is noticeably darker when he opens them again.

There's a noise beside him, and he looks to find Lestrade hanging his coat upon a hook. Once done, Gregory walks past his chair, one strong hand drifting along Mycroft's shoulder as he goes. “You could have gone to bed if you were tired.”

“I didn't think I was,” Mycroft replies honestly, trying to stifle a yawn. He doesn't quite succeed.

“You also could have bought yourself a new hat.” Lestrade reaches out, brushes the back of two fingers along Mycroft's neck. His fingers feel delightfully cool.

“At some point, my skin will stop burning. Out of self-preservation if nothing else. Besides,” Mycroft adds, “I have a hat. It suits me well enough.”

“It doesn't suit you at all,” Lestrade teases in response, taking the seat beside Mycroft.

It's true but Mycroft doesn't have to admit it. “I thought it fetching.”

“No, you didn't,” Gregory laughs, leaning over to steal a kiss. It's soft and gentle, and probably meant to be over quickly, but Mycroft follows when he starts to pull back and one kiss turns to two and then three.

The light is dim in the cabin. Mycroft hasn't lit the lantern yet, and outside the daylight is sinking into dusk. Yet here they sit, perched on wooden chairs, kissing like moonstruck fools. Gregory's hands are restless, sliding along his jaw, brushing through his hair or a whisper light touch over his sunburn. Mycroft's own hands are more possessive; he has taken hold of Gregory's shoulders and has no intention of letting them go.

Not even when Gregory pulls back enough to mutter, “The bed is only a few steps away.” No, Mycroft keeps his hands where they are and uses them to pull Gregory closer. 

Gregory's kisses are better than wine, better than any addictive folly. They are maddening and lush, something to be lost within. Mycroft's eyes drift shut and he lets his world narrow to Gregory's breathing and the slick sounds between them, to the warmth of skin and tongues, to the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears and the growing need between his thighs.

He follows the sensations. Allows his hands to roam down the firm plane of Gregory's chest, feel the muscle beneath the layers of waistcoat and shirt. He chases Gregory's moan, tries to taste his gasp and when Gregory starts feeling too far away, he shuffles closer. When the air between them feels too vast, he keeps kissing Gregory even as he gets to his feet, even as he steps a leg over to sit astride Gregory's thighs.

Immediately, there are hands on his hips, hiking him forward. Pulling him flush against Gregory until he can feel how desperately Gregory wants him, until Gregory must be able to feel his own need.

Mycroft pulls his head away to pant against Gregory's neck. Gregory's hands are insistent on his hips, pulling him forward in a scandalous rhythm, fingers digging into the seat of Mycroft's breeches as he rocks his hips forward. It's an obscene parody of riding but Mycroft can't stifle his own groans as he pushes against Gregory and then back into his hands. He can feel the sweat break out on his skin; he's still dressed and over-warm, but it feels too good to stop.

If it were left to Mycroft, he wouldn't stop. He'd keep squirming and rocking on Gregory's lap until they both ended messily, until clothing and dignity were left casualties of the heat between them. 

But Gregory has other ideas. Gregory is the one to tighten his hold and stand, lifting Mycroft up to the table. Gregory is the one to unbutton breeches and pull smallclothes out of the way, to push Mycroft's shoulders back with one hand and pull him free with the other.

“Gregory, please,” Mycroft groans, begging for everything and anything. Needing Gregory like he needs sunlight and air, needing Gregory's firm hand around him, stroking and tugging out groans and wordless whimpers.

Lying back on the wooden table, legs spread wide and clothes awry, Mycroft feels like he's part of a feast, some delicacy displayed for Gregory's appetites. It's dark enough that he feels shameless, can be as wanton as he likes when he begs for Gregory's mouth.

He means a kiss. He wants Gregory leaning over him, lips on Mycroft's as his gentle hands take Mycroft apart. But Gregory pins his hips to the table and licks a wet stripe up the side of Mycroft's cock. Mycroft gives a shuddering groan like all the breath has been punched out of him.

He's barely got his breath back when Gregory does it again. There's a flurry of small licks and soft kisses, another slow lick to the tip, and then Gregory's mouth closes around him.

Mycroft's focus narrows to that: the tingling pleasure building at the base of his spine, the wet lips around his cock, the curl of Gregory's tongue pressing as he pulls up. It builds like wildfire, sudden and intense, pleasure sparking over him like flames catching on a tree. It burns him up, inside and out, until he's biting down on his own hand, trying not to keen as the flames consume him whole.

Afterwards, he must look a wreck. He's still lying on the table as Gregory finds the lantern in the dark and lights it. Mycroft is sprawled out and exposed with half of his buttons undone and his breeches askew; he must look a fright.

“Oh, Fancy,” Gregory says, voice gruff and warm, “look at you.”

Mycroft keeps his eyes closed. “All your doing.” 

“Me? I suggested the bed.”

Mycroft gathers the courage to open his eyes. Gregory is standing there watching him, licking his lips as he hungrily eyes Mycroft's dishevelled state.

Mycroft can't help looking Gregory up and down, searching for signs that Gregory is still affected. It's easy to see. Gregory isn't trying to hide it.

Mycroft pushes himself up until he's sitting, and starts unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Perhaps you should undress as well and then we can both go bed.”

***

Sherlock doesn't receive his present until the next day and he’s even less gracious about it than Mycroft had hoped. 

“Thread would have been more useful,” Sherlock says, taking the case from Mycroft. He sets it down on the table, right on top of the map Mycroft was studying. “John has promised to teach me how to replace the embroidery on my coat. He says it's a good way to learn to stitch.”

“And is that a useful skill?”

“Sails will need mending. All sailors should know a good stitch from a bad one,” Sherlock says, clearly echoing someone else's words. He snaps open the lid of the case and pulls the instrument out, long fingers flicking at a few strings. “It was too much to hope you'd tuned it.”

This is not the best time for Gregory to walk into the navigation room. Another few minutes and Sherlock would have left, and Lestrade wouldn't witness Sherlock's ungracious manners first-hand. Mycroft sighs as Gregory steps inside the room, looking from Sherlock to the violin in his hand and then grins. 

“Do you like it?” Lestrade asks, understandably pleased with the gift and expecting a certain level of gratitude in return.

“It's not in tune,” Sherlock replies, ignoring manners as he sees fit, “but your gold was well spent.”

There is a twist in Sherlock's tone that puts Mycroft on edge. Sharp and mocking, reminiscent of Sherrinford for all that Sherlock's voice is far deeper. His instinct is to step between them, to shelter Gregory from whatever Sherlock says next.

“Is all well on deck?” he asks instead, hoping to distract both of them.

Sherlock frowns at him like the question was idiotic. “What do you care?”

“He's as much a member of this crew as you are,” Lestrade says easily. 

Sherlock snorts. “Hardly.”

“He signed the same charter you did.” Now there's a touch of warning in Lestrade's tone. “Earns the same share.”

“Doesn't earn it the same way.”

It's too much to hope that the sly jab goes unnoticed. For a moment, Lestrade looks confused and Mycroft prays that he doesn't follow Sherlock's meaning.

Then Lestrade's jaw tenses. Mycroft speaks quickly, “Captain, perhaps--”

“No,” Lestrade interrupts, not looking away from Sherlock. “I think Sherlock needs a moment to apologise.”

“For what?” Sherlock asks sullenly, daring Mycroft or Lestrade to put the insinuation into words. Mycroft knows this game; he grew up playing it. The art is to keep the barbs sly and unsaid, to make the slight seem unreasonable, as though it exists only in the insulted party's imagination. If they can't define the insult, it's hard to object to it.

Sherrinford was a master of it. Mycroft had thought Sherlock too young to have learnt that style of attack.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says firmly, the tone he's only used with Sherlock when he's truly in trouble. Unfortunately, Sherlock is no longer six years old and trying to emulate the manners of his elders. “Apologise.”

“For what, Mycroft?”

“You can't tell me you spoke to the officers on the Imperium this way,” Mycroft says casually. No good will come from acknowledging the insult. Mycroft has been playing this game a lot longer; he knows the only true defence is from an unexpected angle. “I would have thought you'd know more about maritime conduct.”

Sherlock frowns, clearly thinking of rank and respect at sea. “Apologies, captain,” he says, and almost sounds genuine. “Thank you for the gift.”

Lestrade nods in acknowledgement and Sherlock quickly takes his leave, ducking under the low door. At times, Mycroft forgets he's still so young, barely grown into those lanky limbs of his. At times, Sherlock forgets too.

“What was that about?” Lestrade asks after the door is closed.

In all honesty, Mycroft doesn't know the motivation for the insult. “He's angry with me. He's happy here but he's angry with me.”

Lestrade rocks back on his heels, considering what to say. It's not a simple situation, Mycroft knows. Even a captain can't order a man not to be angry. He could order Sherlock not to voice it, but Sherlock isn't citing unrest or spreading ill feeling. He's just angry when Mycroft's nearby.

“I'll discuss it with him in private,” Mycroft says because something needs to be done. It's not wise for Sherlock to treat his captain badly. Mycroft can see too many ways it could fester and lead to unsatisfactory results. Like an infection, it may need to be lanced before further damage is done.

Lestrade sighs. “If there was a way to help, I would.”

Mycroft loves Lestrade, but he is the captain and he can't separate himself from that responsibility when and as it suits. Lestrade can't intervene in this without it being the Lydia's captain intervening.

“I doubt that will be necessary.”

***

Mycroft finds himself thinking of the night after their parents’ funeral. Most of their relatives had finally left Musgrave Hall but a few distant ones remained, enjoying Sherrinford’s hospitality for as long as good manners would allow it. Mycroft had needed time away from the polite chatter and insincere grief, and had gone to walk in the gardens. There was a small patch of wilderness not too far from the house, trees left to grow wild as if it was a tiny forest, and it had always been a good place to escape notice.

He'd found Sherlock there. Black mourning suit still on, hands dirty and leather shoes already scuffed. He'd had a broken branch, two inches thick, gripped in both hands. He was swinging it at the trunk of an old chestnut tree. It made a low thunk every time it connected. Over and over, Sherlock hit it with his shoulders tense and his teeth gritted as Mycroft watched.

“That hardly seems fair on the tree,” Mycroft said eventually.

Sherlock scowled at him with all the ill-will a nine-year-old could possibly muster. “Fair is a stupid concept.”

“It’s an unrealistic one,” Mycroft allowed, stepping closer and easing the branch from Sherlock’s hands. His palms were red and grazed from the bark, but not injured. “Not inherently idiotic.”

Sherlock had been so small then. After Mycroft’s last growth spurt, Sherlock barely reached Mycroft’s elbow. It somehow made it easy to pull Sherlock towards him, to hold him even if he didn’t know what to say.

“They should be here,” Sherlock snarled, even as his hands clawed into Mycroft's jacket. “It's not fair.”

“Life rarely is.”

“I’m angry,” Sherlock declared and even Mycroft could hear the emotion strangled in his voice. Frustration and fury, yes, but also fear and loss. 

Anger has always come easier to Sherlock than worry or fear.

***

Mycroft considers using Watson as an in-between but it introduces too many variables. He knows Watson well enough, but Watson's fast friendship with Sherlock might lead him to support Sherlock's ridiculous temper tantrums or might make Sherlock too worried about Watson's esteem to hear Mycroft's point. Better to catch Sherlock alone, skulking around the cannons and noting the damage to the inside of the barrels.

They're docked in fair weather. Everyone else is either scraping the hull clean or enjoying their liberty on shore. There’s no one around to overhear them.

“You can't do that again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock keeps his head in line with the cannon but his gaze cuts across to Mycroft for the smallest of seconds. “And what right do you have to tell me what to do?”

“I am your nearest relative, geographically speaking.” Sherlock doesn’t find that amusing; Mycroft hadn’t truly expected him to. He doesn't say anything more and Sherlock returns to studying the effects of heat and pressure on tempered steel.

Mycroft considers leaving Sherlock to his current fascination. If the situation hadn't been witnessed by Lestrade he would ignore Sherlock's bad temper and wait for the storm to pass. It's his approach to most situations: quietly weather them until he can identify something to be done to solve the problem. But he's well aware Sherlock's behaviour has grown progressively worse and he still has no true insight as to its cause. He cannot afford to sit back and do nothing.

“Are you happy on this ship?”

Sherlock huffs out a breath. He doesn't look away from the cannon. “Is that really what you want to ask?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies. “If you're unhappy, we can find another ship. If you want to stay, insulting the captain might remove that choice from your hands.”

“I wasn't insulting him,” Sherlock replies as if Mycroft needs help to understand where his ire was directed.

“Not intentionally but even you can see the harm caused.”

Sherlock stands up, turning from the cannon in quick spin. “I can't be held responsible if he finds the truth insulting.”

“It's hardly the truth,” Mycroft replies calmly.

“The truth that you went from marrying one powerful man to sharing the bed of the next? Or do you consider yourself a sailor,” Sherlock sneers, eyes bright, “same as the other men on board?”

“Of course not.” Mycroft has never claimed to be a sailor, to know the skills of the trade. “I’d consider myself the sailing master.”

“A sailing master? You've never raised a sail or climbed a mast.”

Mycroft refuses to let his tone betray a thing. “The captain values my skills.”

“And what happens after him? What happens when he rescues someone pretty and pleasing, then casts you aside?”

It's unlikely, Mycroft tells himself. Gregory is a man of his word, a man who would not suggest marriage if Mycroft meant nothing more than a tumble between the sheets. He'd have no need to. Mycroft has willingly gone to bed and offered everything he has; marriage offers no benefit unless he loves Mycroft.

“Or do you just plan to be the next sailor's doxy?” Sherlock spits out, so angry he's up on his toes, trying to stare Mycroft down.

For a moment, Mycroft's shocked at the words. Not the concept, because Sherlock had already implied as much, but the term used. He has to remind himself that his little brother has spent weeks pretending to be a sailor, speaking and swearing like one. Of course, he would have used colourful language.

Sherlock's breaking heavily, still standing aggressively close. Regardless of the words used, this is somehow at the core of it. Mycroft knows he needs to speak carefully. “I doubt the captain would throw me over so thoughtlessly.”

“Even if he stays cleaved to your side,” Sherlock says with heavy sarcasm, “it’s not a life without risk. All it would take is a stray splinter, an unlucky pistol shot, being thrown overboard in bad weather. What is your grand plan then?”

Mycroft has always been one for plans. Plans for what he would study at school, how well he would do, where that would lead next. Plans for provisions and ships and naval strategies, contingency plans upon contingency plans for when the unknown would strike. He has never been the impulsive sort. He’s never seen the appeal in leaving outcomes to chance.

Sherlock would find the unknown an adventure. He’d consider it a challenge to think of solutions for something previously unconsidered, especially if there is a pressing need to solve them. Mycroft would find it unnecessarily stressful, something to be avoided if possible.

“You’re concerned that I have no contingency in place if something should happen to Captain Lestrade,” Mycroft says slowly and Sherlock shrugs sullenly. It’s all the confirmation he needs. “What would you suggest?”

“You’re on a ship, and I haven’t seen you lift a hand to learn how to be a sailor. If you had the skills, at least you’d have something to barter for your passage.”

Mycroft hates physical labour: the dirt and the sweat and the sheer discomfort. Give him a quiet place to sit and think, and he’s far happier. But he can see that beneath Sherlock’s bluster there’s genuine concern, a worry that’s played on his mind. The truth of the situation is that Mycroft hasn’t considered beyond Gregory. If not for Gregory, if not for Sherlock, he’d have no desire to stay on the Lydia. 

But if learning a few skills is the price of Sherlock’s good humour, it does Mycroft no harm to master something that might be useful. “Then you should start teaching me.”

“Teaching you?” Sherlock repeats, pulling his head back in surprise.

“If these skills are so valuable, you can find the time to teach me.”

***

Sherlock decides to start his lessons below decks. Mycroft learns more about cleaning and inspecting the anchors than he ever wanted to know, and he suspects Sherlock gets a certain perverse joy from standing over Mycroft's shoulder, insisting that he scrub harder.

Mycroft grits his teeth and bears it because it means that by the time they move to the decks, the captain has gone into town to check on their erstwhile prisoners. (He's secretly proud that Lestrade has no obligation to those men, yet he visits them daily. He considers them good men working under bad orders. It's a generous man who can be kind to those who have done nothing to deserve it.)

Williams is down on the dock, overseeing the cleaning of the hull so there are very few men around to watch Sherlock's impatient instructions. When it comes to the ropes and the sails, Mycroft's spent enough time studying the pulley system to understand how and where pressure needs to be applied. It's still heavy, rough work that leaves his shoulders sore and his back sweating beneath his shirt. Sherlock has stripped to his waistcoat but Mycroft keeps his jacket buttoned up, despite the heat and Sherlock's taunts about ruining the silk.

“The waistcoat is far more likely to be damaged by being exposed,” Mycroft grunts in reply, pulling hand over hand and using his own weight as leverage as per Sherlock's instructions.

Sherlock grins, far too amused by the situation, and then fashions a quick knot to tie off the sail. He demonstrates it again for Mycroft, narrating the steps and then passes the rope across. Mycroft's knot is serviceable, albeit slower.

“You need to know the knots blind. In a storm or in the dark,” Sherlock says. “Do it again.”

***

Mycroft is secretly relieved when Watson comes to fetch Sherlock for their watch and he can go hide in the navigation room with a book. For once, it's not one of his books. This is Watson's: it's a small book, cover stained and pages wrinkled from past water damage. They've been carefully dried and the ink has only run in places.

It's a book of naval instructions, explanations of watches and duties amongst retellings of battles and diagrams of knots. Mycroft recognises the value of books but he'd have to blind not to see how conflicted Watson was, how he both wanted to be helpful and didn't want to relinquish a treasured item.

“This helped me learn my knots, Mr Holmes,” Watson said, holding it out as a precious gift. “Perhaps it could help.”

Mycroft had taken it with the utmost care and promised to return it that night. By Watson's relief, it had been the right offer to make.

Now, he has a small length of rope, ink and his sketchbook. He is working through each knot and drawing himself a reference to it. It takes most of the afternoon to make sketches of each knot mentioned and then he lays them out on the table.

He studies them and then closes his eyes and tries to make the knots from memory. It's a slow, frustrating process. When he opens his eyes, most of his knots are messy and asymmetrical. After a few hours, he can name them all but he's still slow compared to Sherlock's nimble fingers.

It’s not a lost cause. It may feel that way, but Mycroft knows better. He knows it’s the same as his piano practice: a skill he’ll need to practice for hours to become technically proficient, a skill that will never come naturally to him or fill him with joy. So he practices until his hands are reddened and the sunlight fades. Then he sighs and retreats to the captain's cabin for food.

The captain’s already there, sitting at the table with shoe polish, brushes and rags. Mycroft frowns, looking for his meal, and finds it set aside on the chest of drawers. Fortunately, the table is big enough for him to sit at the other end to eat.

Lestrade grins unrepentantly. “If you hadn’t lost track of time, the table would’ve been clear.”

“I didn’t lose track of time,” Mycroft says primly, pulling back the cotton cover over his plate. It’s a simple meal of mutton, potatoes and fresh green spinach. The biggest advantage to being in dock is the freshness of the food.

“If you say so, Fancy.” Gregory bends back to his task, applying the polish and rubbing it into the leather in slow, round movements. Mycroft eats and watches Gregory’s hands, the easy care that speaks of familiarity with the task, the efficiency of knowing the correct pressure to use. It’s another task that Sherlock will probably insist that he learn. 

“What’s that face for?” Gregory asks, and Mycroft forces his scowl away. By Gregory’s amused expression, Mycroft isn’t entirely successful.

“I’ve never polished my own shoes.”

Gregory tilts his head to the side, dark eyes catching the warm light from the lantern. “Is that a request?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “After dinner, you should show me how it’s done.”

***

Where Sherlock teaches by outlining the steps and then watching over Mycroft's shoulder to evaluate, Gregory's approach is the opposite. He draws their chairs together, takes a shoe in hand and demonstrates the first step only. He waits for Mycroft to finish cleaning the shoes before talking about the right amount of polish to apply; he waits for Mycroft to apply it before picking up a brush and talking about the best direction to brush the polish into the leather, the way to work around the buckle.

The truth of the matter is that Mycroft doesn't need this level of consideration. With the steps briefly outlined he could have observed how the bristles catch or clog, and found a way to apply the polish evenly. He has never needed coddling but it is indulgently lovely to sit beside Gregory, so close their shoulders almost touch, and share the simple task.

It's slow work but not difficult. They trade the brushes between them, each working on their own shoe, swapping polish for brushes or rags, hands sometimes tangling as they reach for the same item.

“You're an apt student,” Gregory says as Mycroft starts on his second shoe. He’s set the first one aside for the polish to seep into the leather.

“Yes,” Mycroft says, swapping brushes for the softer one, using it to apply the polish to the heel. Belatedly, he realises that was a poor response to a compliment. “Thank you.”

“Did you have a chance to talk to Sherlock?”

“He will be more civil in future,” Mycroft assures him firmly. Gregory seems curious rather than concerned but it’s best to smooth any ruffled feathers now. “He didn't mean any offence to you.”

Gregory leans back in his chair, watching Mycroft. There's something gentle in his expression but the scrutiny makes Mycroft self-conscious. He straightens his back, correcting his posture.

“Are you happy here, Fancy?”

The question takes him by surprise. Mycroft says, “Yes,” and then qualifies it with, “but that is mostly due to the company. Why do you ask?”

“You looked downright sour when you walked into this room.” Gregory catches a stray strand of Mycroft's hair, tucks it gently behind his ear. The scent of polish lingers on his hands. “You will tell me if Sherlock makes your life difficult?”

“Sherlock always makes life difficult.” Mycroft turns back to the shoe in his hand, smiling. “He wouldn't be my brother if he wasn't making something difficult.”

Gregory nods and doesn't pursue it further. They fall into an easy rhythm surrounded by the rasp of brushes on leather and the quiet creaks of the ship. The repetition is calming, something to occupy his hands while his mind wanders, and Mycroft finds himself thinking of years gone by. Thinking of his parents, and Sherlock hitting that tree. 

Sherlock had experienced grief as something overwhelming and impossible, too big to be conquered, too vast to be acknowledged. It had been clumsy but genuine, and in comparison, Sherrinford’s grief had seemed refined and almost practised.

Sherrinford had stayed at Musgrave Hall as long as was proper. He had dressed in black and it flattered his colouring; he spoke of their parents with well-judged pauses, and artfully turned others’ sympathy to his advantage. He appeared to mourn as everyone expected but he carefully controlled the impressions of visitors.

Mycroft’s own feelings had been… manageable. He remembers being surprised that he didn’t feel more. He didn’t feel something frantic and impossible to contain as Sherlock did; didn’t feel something that fitted graciously into the trappings of grief as Sherrinford did. Mycroft had simply been busy. Mycroft Hall needed to be organised, the kitchen needed to be stocked and a new footman hired, the butler’s household expenses had to be signed off and the daily menus approved for the cook. Sherrinford had been occupied with constant visitors, and had left Mycroft to deal with the squabbles between tenant farmers and arranging payments for their accounts.

Sherrinford wrote to Mycroft’s headmaster to have Mycroft sit his exams in absentia. In hindsight, Mycroft suspects Sherrinford wanted them both safely isolated in the country, but it was convenient for Mycroft as well. The act of attending class had always been a mostly useless gesture -- Mycroft had never had difficulty following his texts or reciting the knowledge back as needed. When Sherlock’s tutor quit, as Sherlock’s tutors always did, it allowed Mycroft to oversee Sherlock’s schooling personally, to keep Sherlock distracted and entertained until he was sent to school.

For those few years, Sherrinford had stayed mostly in London, leaving Musgrave Hall mostly under Mycroft’s steady control. There had been days of quiet reading in the library, both he and Sherlock reading whatever caught their imagination. There had been windy, chilly days spent trekking through the countryside, Sherlock searching for some plant or animal, wanting to see everything for himself. There had been visits to London’s Royal Academy to watch surgeons demonstrate for their students. It was a happy time, at least for Sherlock. Mycroft felt the house was empty without their parents. Too often, he'd look over the familiar spaces, half expecting his parents to be there and disappointed each time.

Grief is supposed to shake one to the core, upset one’s ability to function, but Mycroft found it was something slower and more pervasive than that. It was a lingering sadness, a weight on the spirit. He thought it like a stone dropped into a shallow pond: something that sat low and heavy, displacing the water and reducing the pond to less than it was; something that sat there so long it simply became part of the bedrock.

Not that Mycroft ever found a way to explain that. He still remembers Sherrinford pulling him aside a week after the funeral, during one of those endless dinner parties. Remembers Sherrinford’s hushed advice: “You’d do better to at least pretend to mourn them,” and “People will notice how unfeeling you are,” and being unable to find the words to deny it. There is a difference between being unfeeling and being unwilling to show it. Mycroft has always suffered from the latter but it’s an old failing, one Mycroft doubts he will ever correct.

It bothers him less than it once did. Once he would have thought himself resigned to being considered cold and unfeeling. Now, there is Gregory, who smiles if Mycroft makes a joke. Who believes that Mycroft cares even when Mycroft's manners and speech are woefully insufficient. Gregory has never given the slightest sign of thinking Mycroft reptilian or cold-hearted, and as long as Gregory knows it's not true, Mycroft doesn't care if the rest of the world believes it.

It’s hard to fret over such things while sitting beside Gregory, industriously rubbing at the leather with soft cloths. There is an ease in the quiet space, hidden away in this small cabin with the solid warmth of Gregory’s shoulder against his. Finishing, Gregory sets his shoes aside and moves his seat closer, wrapping an arm around Mycroft as he keeps working. Mycroft feels himself slouch, sinking into the embrace.

When it’s done, Gregory stands and suggests bed, leaving two pairs of shoes shining in the lantern’s light.

***

The next day starts with swabbing the deck, pouring out buckets of water with Sherlock, Watson and a handful of others, and then scrubbing the wood clean. Mycroft can't help but grimace at every splash of dirty water that catches his white stockings. He'll clean them tonight, scrub at them with soap until the marks are gone. It irks him, but he continues to scrub.

The entire task annoys him, too dirty and messy, and he can't see any reason for the men around him to joke and grin, calling out to each other. They seem happy with this task, even going to so far as to start an unofficial race between Watson and a tall, swarthy fellow. They both rush to the bow, brushes pushing in front of them, while the others cheer them on. Even Sherlock joins in, yelling, “Faster, John!” and whooping when Watson reaches the wooden railing first.

Mycroft is used to standing in a crowd and not feeling part of it. He tells himself this is no different and he expected no less. He does find himself glancing longingly at the quarterdeck, imagining the sunlight on this shoulders and pastels smeared on his fingers.

They work on the ropes next, circling them neatly and tying them off. Mycroft's knots still aren't as fast as Sherlock's or Watson's, but they hold and he doesn't need instruction on how to tie any of them.

He's starting to believe that becoming a sailor may be within reach. Until Sherlock mentions the rigging.

“Since you know the knots, you should see how the sails are held,” Sherlock says, casually walking towards the mizzenmast. He rests one foot casually on the railing and pulls himself up onto the grid of ropes.

Mycroft watches Sherlock's carefree movements, hand over hand, but doesn't step closer. “Are you sure this is necessary?”

“You can't see them from the ground, Mycroft. Hurry along.”

Mycroft scowls up at the sails hanging above him. He can't deny that this is an important part of mastering a ship, but the idea of climbing so high fills him with dread. He considers delaying the exercise with some flimsy excuse but thinks better of it. Now, the Lydia is suspended in dry dock, steady as she'll ever be. 

Even on the calmest waters, the ship rises and falls with the waves. If he puts this off until they're back at sea, the ship will be moving as he tries to climb. 

Mycroft glances around, checking that the captain isn't on deck to observe this. “Very well,” he says, following Sherlock up.

The trick, he realises, is to think of it as a ladder. If he pretends the rough, damp rope is really a wooden ladder, it's easier. He watches his hands and tries to pretend he's still a boy, carefully climbing the narrow ladder from the cellar with pilfered apples in his pockets.

It works until Sherlock calls out from above him and Mycroft looks up to see Sherlock stepping lightly across the lower yard, bending forward precariously to peer down at Mycroft. “At that rate, it will be dark before you get up here.”

Mycroft doesn't look down. He's two-thirds of the way to Sherlock, so he knows he's at least thirty foot above the quarterdeck. He doesn't need to see the empty air beneath him to know how fast he would fall or the force of impact on those freshly cleaned boards.

He focuses on his hands instead, his pale fingers gripping the rope desperately. He looks at the rope, the strong shrouds held vertically, the smaller ratlines tied across them. A few strands are fraying but it’s generally in good repair, strong enough to easily take three men's weight. He has seen Sherlock and Watson scurry up and down these ropes like field mice. This is not an impossible task.

No matter how it feels, it is far from impossible.

It’s simply a matter of forcing one leg to lift to the next rung and shifting his weight up. His fingers don’t want to release the rope and his knuckles are white with tension, but he is not terrified beyond all self-control. He stretches the fingers of one hand and reaches up blindly, not willing to recognise how much further he has to go. All he needs to do is repeat those steps -- one leg and one hand, take a breath and then repeat them again -- until he reaches up and feels the wood of the yard beam beneath his fingers.

Then he lets himself look up to see Sherlock’s brown shoes standing in front of him, and Sherlock leaning down with a hand held out. He takes the support gratefully, climbing up to sit on the yard with his knees locked tightly around the wood. He fixes his feet in the footrope for extra balance.

Sherlock drops down beside him, both legs swinging out over the empty air. For a quiet moment, they look out across the aft of the ship across the port, the temptingly clear horizon beyond that. The day is bright but cloudy, and Mycroft listens to the cries of birds behind them, shrieking seagulls and unfamiliar tropical caws.

When he feels settled again, he asks, “Can we see the rigging from here or do we need to climb to the topsail yard?”

Sherlock continues watching the sea. “You’re not any good at this, are you?”

“Hence the need to be taught,” Mycroft replies.

“You find it difficult,” Sherlock says slowly, as if it’s a secret to be carefully guarded. “I’ve never known you to find something difficult.”

“This isn’t learning Latin, Sherlock.” Perhaps he spoke too harshly; Sherlock's expression is surprisingly vulnerable. “Even I can’t master every skill easily.”

Sherlock kicks his heels as if he was a child sitting on a ledge. Too often, Mycroft can’t help but see him as a child, even as he stands as tall as a man and works like one. Perhaps Sherlock suffers the same misperception, perhaps he can’t help but see Mycroft as the older brother who already knows everything worth knowing. 

“I thought you were being slothful,” Sherlock says after a moment. “Choosing to spend Lestrade’s money rather than do a day’s work.”

“I am not spending the captain’s money.”

Sherlock raises a questioning eyebrow. “The violin?”

“The violin was a gift. The rest was purchased with my own funds.” Before Sherlock can question any further, Mycroft says, “Since we’re up here and I’m unlikely to make the effort again, explain the rigging to me.”

***

The climb down is not a great deal better, but at least Sherlock makes the effort of climbing beside Mycroft, keeping pace with him even when Mycroft needs a few deep breaths to force himself to move. Somehow, climbing down is slower than climbing up. Possibly because Mycroft finds himself glancing down to check his footing and can’t help but see how far below the deck is.

The shrouds suddenly move, shifting under his hands. Mycroft freezes, clinging for dear life. Watson appears on his other side.

“Afternoon, Mr Holmes,” Watson says cheerily as if they weren’t hanging twenty-five foot high in the air.

Mycroft closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Good afternoon, Mr Watson,” he says, almost calm. He stretches one foot down and there’s a precarious moment before he feels the tension of the ratline beneath his foot.

“Enjoying the fresh air?” Watson asks, ignoring Mycroft’s unease. 

“It would be a nice day, if not for the clouds,” Sherlock says, stepping down in time with Mycroft.

“With that southerly wind,” Watson replies, “the skies should clear by sunset.”

“Not earlier?” Sherlock asks.

Mycroft glances up at the skies, the high flag blowing south showing wind speed and direction. He can already see the gap of blue sky in the distance, vibrantly bright against the silver clouds above them. “It should clear by six o’clock.”

“I think you’re right, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft knows he’s being patronised, but it’s much easier to think of calculations and weather while he takes the next step. Watson keeps up the easy chatter as they climb down, talking about the knots used in the rigging, pointing at a reef knot and calling it a rolling hitch, keeping Mycroft distracted from their current height. He talks about the crew planning a celebration tomorrow -- “Once the hull’s cleaned and we’re out of dry dock, there’s no real work left,” he says, grinning -- and asks Sherlock what tune he’ll play for them.

Sherlock suggests the most ridiculous choices -- stately violin solos, slow and mournful pieces -- which Watson doesn’t know by name, so Sherlock is forced to hum the tunes. Watson guesses at the song, “Oh, the Maid of Amsterdam,” or “That's Three Lowly Sailors,” and hums back something that sounds nothing like it. Then Sherlock responds with another ill-suited choice and the charade repeats.

It continues all the way down, until Watson says, “Only a few more steps. Like climbing out of a hammock.”

“If that’s supposed to reassure me,” Mycroft replies archly, very thankful to feel the wooden railing beneath his foot, “it does not.”

***

Spending the afternoon in the captain's cabin returns a measure of calm to Mycroft's frazzled nerves. He is still left with the original concern -- the lack of security should something happen to Lestrade -- but at least Sherlock has conceded that Mycroft is not and will never be a decent sailor.

He will have to think of some marketable skill, something he can trade for coin but he can't see any opportunities onboard. He may need to spend some time ashore, see if there's some way of earning money in port.

At the moment, he can only think of being a scribe, writing letters for those that don't write themselves, but he can't imagine much of a livelihood in it.

Lestrade returns in time for the evening meal. He takes off his coat and washes his face, and then leans over Mycroft to press a welcoming kiss to his cheek.

“Did today go better?” Gregory asks, sitting down to eat.

Mycroft wonders if he's heard tales of today's excruciatingly slow climb. “In some ways.”

“Still playing swabbie?” Gregory asks with a bright grin.

“I've learnt it can be a competitive sport.” Mycroft shifts his grip on the fork in his hand, trying to press the cool metal against a different part of his tender palm. “And that Watson plays to win.”

“That he does,” Gregory agrees and then tells Mycroft about his day: who he spoke to in the village, rumours that a naval ship will pass through these waters next month, plans to stay in port for the rest of the week and then vote on their next destination.

Mycroft listens to Gregory's reasoning and cradles his wine glass between both hands, appreciating the cool press on his skin.

“Let me see your hands,” Gregory says, interrupting himself to ease one of Mycroft's hands from his wine glass. He makes a clucking noise of disapproval as he looks at the reddened palm. “Rope burn. These hands weren't made for manual labour.”

“I agree entirely.”

Gregory fetches a small glass jar of salve from one if the drawers. Mycroft holds out a hand for it, but Gregory sits down and unscrews the lid, and takes Mycroft's hand in his.

The salve is smooth and cool against his skin, but that's not what makes Mycroft shiver. It’s the gentle slide of Gregory's thumb along his palm, the tender touch as he spreads the cream across his skin.

“Gregory,” Mycroft says as Gregory reaches for his other hand and repeats the slow, gentle touches. “I'm still dressed.”

Gregory's thumbs pause for a moment, and then he continues working the salve into the sore and grazed skin. “Let me finish this first, Fancy,” he says, low and promising.

Mycroft can feel himself flush. He ignores it. “I meant that I won't be able to get undressed without smearing this all over my clothes.”

“Then I'll just have to take them off you.”

And he does, after he wipes the salve from his own fingers. Button by button, he unwraps Mycroft's layers, carefully pushing the jacket from his shoulders and hanging it up. Next, the waistcoat. He starts with buttons near Mycroft's neck and slowly works his way down Mycroft's chest and stomach, the final button in line with his hips. When Gregory pushes the silk open, leaving Mycroft's shirt exposed, Mycroft feels laid bare.

Gregory eases the waistcoat down Mycroft's arms and puts it away. When he returns, the look in his eyes is wicked. He kneels before Mycroft, fingers deftly rolling his stockings down from his knees to his ankles, fingers skating over the skin as it's bared.

“Lift your foot,” Gregory says, and Mycroft’s mouth feels too dry to manage speech. He nods instead and lifts his foot. Gregory unbuckles his shoe and pulls it off, and then slides the stocking off as well. He cradles Mycroft's foot for a moment -- long and bony, Mycroft's feet are a feature best ignored -- and then guides it back to the wooden floor.

Mycroft nearly reaches down to cup Gregory's cheek or drag fingers through his hair, but he remembers the salve. He keeps his hands by his side as Gregory turns his attention to the other leg, rolling down the stocking and undoing the buckle.

When Mycroft has two bare feet on the floor, Gregory sits up on his knees and unbuttons Mycroft's breeches. Given the level of his face, given how close he's kneeling, his effect on Mycroft is embarrassingly obvious. Mycroft closes his eyes but it only makes the sensation stronger. He can feel Gregory's hands pushing the breeches down his thighs. He can feel Gregory pulling down his smallclothes and the cool air on his heavy cock. He can feel his cheeks burning and the hurried beat of his heart in his chest.

When he's stripped of everything but his shirt, his shirt that only hangs to his hips, leaving his body very much on display, Gregory steps closer.

“Oh, Fancy,” he says, voice low and all but a whisper, “if you could see how you look right now…”

Mycroft feels himself standing a little taller. He has never been valued for his looks, has never really sought that kind of attention, but under Gregory's gaze he feels like Helen of Troy, like a famous beauty worth fighting over.

When Gregory's hands slide up the side of his ribs, gathering his shirt higher, he feels slender and graceful. It's all in the way Gregory touches him, those callused hands as awestruck as if they were skimming over the curves of a priceless vase.

Standing there, stripped of everything but Gregory's hungry regard, Mycroft feels irresistible. He keeps his hands by his side and leans in to kiss Gregory. He nips at Gregory's mouth and says, “Take me to bed.”

Gregory eagerly complies.

***

There's a pale hint of light through the curtains when Mycroft wakes up. It's early enough that the captain is still in bed behind him. One possessive arm is draped across Mycroft's side. Mycroft reaches a hand down to lightly trace the strong muscles.

“It's early,” Gregory mutters, curling in closer. “Back to sleep.”

It's a strange thing, Mycroft thinks, to be so comfortable lying naked against another body. He can feel the sun-drenched heat of Gregory's skin, the soft rasp of hair on his chest and his thighs, the moist breath warm on the back of his shoulder.

He remembers his guilty pleasure at stealing such an embrace long before he had any right to it. Back then, he'd been so certain he'd never possess such gentle affection honestly. 

“I never expected you,” he says quietly. It's a whispered confession, soft enough that he expects Gregory to sleep through it.

Gregory yawns and presses a sleepy kiss to the back of Mycroft's neck. “Do I stand out amongst your sea of suitors?”

“There was no sea of suitors,” Mycroft mutters, accustomed to this strange joke of Gregory's.

“I'm sure there were a fair few who tried to catch your eye.” Gregory rolls back, tugging Mycroft with him until they're lying on their backs, Mycroft's head on Gregory's shoulder. Gregory's hand rests along his breastbone, fingers loose and relaxed. “You're very good with figures. I'm sure you could tell me how many.”

“And on this terribly long list, should I include you?”

“No,” Gregory says with good humour. “Unsuccessful suitors only.”

“And should I include my former fiance?”

“He doesn't get to keep you,” Gregory murmurs into Mycroft's hair, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's temple, “so, yes, he meets the unsuccessful requirements.”

“In that case, the tally is one.”

“What?” Mycroft doesn't need to see him to know the look of surprise Gregory would be wearing. It's all in his tone. “One?”

“You did say Magnussen counted,” Mycroft reminds him.

“But, Fancy, you're the son of a lord. Shouldn't there have been balls and you dressed up in your finery?”

“Of course there were.” Sherrinford wouldn't have overlooked a reason to display the wealth of Musgrave Hall or an opportunity to make connections. “You forget I am the second son.”

It's hard to explain the comparison. How standing in a ballroom next to Sherrinford never cast Mycroft in a good light. Sherrinford could be gregarious to his friends; any chance of securing his influence was better achieved through direct flattery than a permanent engagement to his sibling. In terms of inheritance, Mycroft didn't have enough to tempt fortune hunters and sheer beauty… Well, standing beside Sherrinford’s raven curls and striking cheekbones tended to make Mycroft forgettable.

“The marriage market has fewer prospects for those of us not blessed with fortune or beauty,” Mycroft explains. “My family connections were good, so a marriage would have been arranged eventually, a rich man's spouse or an heiress's husband. I never expected my life would entail much love or affection.”

He'd had hopes, certainly. Hopes that had been disappointed by Sherrinford choosing Magnussen, but those hopes had been small things.

He had hoped to be settled in London. He had hoped to continue working, to be useful and possibly contribute something to the world. He had hoped for civility in whoever he married and a nature that would accept compromise, but he'd never hoped for love. That had seemed preposterous, like hoping to grow wings.

Gregory is quiet for a while, perhaps fallen back asleep. Mycroft lets himself drift and then hears Gregory say, “You should have had dance cards full of young men desperate to spend time with you.”

Mycroft turns his head in the dark, finding Gregory's lips by feel and memory. “If I did, I might not be here now.”

“Then I'll be glad they were all fools.”

***

Once the Lydia moves from dry dock, the entire atmosphere changes on board. It reminds Mycroft of the week that school finished, everyone full of excitement, ready to return home and planning how to spend their leisure hours.

It feels like the entire crew is standing around on deck, gold in their pockets and excited to spend it. Lestrade has to yell to be heard over the noise.

“Hey!” he shouts and the sound dies down, sailors nudging each other to stop talking. “We stay for a week. Remember which ship you serve on. If you're not back by dark on Thursday, we leave without you!”

There's a cheer in response and Lestrade waves them off. The men start rushing down the gangplank, two or three abreast. Mycroft's amazed no one falls overboard.

It's a mixture of joy and chaos, and Mycroft is quite glad to be standing on the quarterdeck, away from it all.

“What about you, Fancy?” Lestrade asks, standing beside him. “Not in a rush to go explore the taverns?”

“Not especially.” Mycroft has limited funds and he's already purchased the necessities. The town itself holds little attraction, but the walk there is very pleasant. “Perhaps we could take a walk later.”

“I'll be stuck on the ship,” Lestrade replies ruefully.

“I thought the work had been done?”

“For the men, yes. But with every man taking part of his share ashore, I need to review Williams’ figures and be sure they're right. The carpenter will need things and I'm sure Doctor White has a list, and we'll need to check powder, shot and food.”

“I do have some experience with provisions,” Mycroft reminds him.

“The responsibility lies with the captain and quartermaster,” Lestrade says, grinning brightly, “but I'll take any help that's offered.”

***

While the rest of the men spend their waking hours in the town -- and a good number of their sleeping hours, Mycroft assumes by the rather empty below decks at night -- Mycroft spends his time productively. He checks Williams’ ledgers, tallying the numbers up again and making corrections as needed. Williams and Lestrade review the powder room and then the three of them check the storeroom. Mycroft convinces the other two to arrange the casks suspended from the ceiling, to have the oil barrels and the water barrels at either end, and the salted meat grouped into pork or beef.

He carefully writes a list of all they need to purchase. Williams estimates the price they’d expect to pay and with Lestrade carrying enough coin to cover the cost, they head into the town.

It’s interesting watching Williams negotiate with the shopkeepers, never committing to buying all they need from one stop. He insists on seeing the goods and agrees to pay half now and the rest upon full delivery. It reminds Mycroft of dealing with the steward at Musgrave Hall, ensuring what was ordered matched the delivery.

When the foodstuffs are delivered to the dock, he helps tally it all and match it to their order. Lestrade orders a few of the men on board to carry it onto the ship and down to the storeroom, but Mycroft helps pack it all away in its place.

They commission the local blacksmith for new saws for the carpenter and fine blades for Doctor White. They enquire about lumber and make arrangements with a local farmer for fresh hardwood that can be cut and cured on the ship.

All in all, it’s edifying to see how a ship continues to operate. To see the variety of items that need to be kept stocked and in good repair and the various sources of each. It’s especially intriguing when Mycroft spots rolled parchment sitting on a high shelf, while they’re purchasing gunpowder and shot. Lestrade’s querying the price of a few pistols but Mycroft’s attention is drawn to the yellowed, curled edges of paper.

He waits until Lestrade finishes ordering pistols and rounds, and then nods at the parchment. “What is that?”

“Sailing charts,” the shopkeeper replies. He nods and the light catches on his bald head.

“May I see them?”

The shopkeeper looks over to Lestrade, who nods and places a small pouch of Spanish gold on the counter. Mycroft raises an eyebrow at the gesture and Lestrade quietly explains, “Goodwill bond. Those charts are worth too much to leave them within easy reach.”

“I'm hardly going to steal them,” Mycroft hisses back, offended at the thought. The shopkeeper ignores them, fetching a small stool to reach up to the charts.

“Hard to know the trustworthy pirates from the unscrupulous ones,” Lestrade whispers back. The shopkeeper returns with two rolled up maps so Mycroft can't reply.

He carefully unrolls the maps and studies them. There are inaccuracies -- the coast of Scotland on one, the south of Spain on another, and the third has Cuba in the wrong place entirely -- but all in all, they're as good as most of the Lydia's charts.

“What price do you sell these for?” Mycroft asks and the shopkeeper quotes a ridiculous price. In London, the Admiralty Board would barely pay a quarter of that. He frowns, about to question the man's impertinence when Lestrade rests a hand on Mycroft's forearm.

“That's a fair price, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft thinks of the collection of charts on the Lydia. He'd always thought it a useful library -- a man can't sail far without a map -- but now he realises it's a rather expensive one as well.

“What price did you pay their former owners?” Mycroft asks. He rolls the charts carefully and returns them to the shopkeeper. “How much would you give me if I had a chart to sell?”

***

Lestrade waits until they're walking back to the ship, the two of them alone on the wide dirt lane, surrounded by deep greens of fern fronds interspersed with the bright yellow and orange of the native flowers. Above them, the trees reach up into the blue sky, leaving the sunlight soft and speckled.

“I assume,” he says, casting a sideways look at Mycroft, “you're not planning on stealing and selling my charts.”

Mycroft's spirits are buoyed by this new possibility, enough that he smiles and says, “It seems unwise to assume a pirate won't steal.”

“He won't steal from his fellow pirates,” Lestrade replies, mirroring Mycroft's good spirits. “That's in the charter.”

“You make a good point.”

“I usually do,” Lestrade replies happily. “Now, what schemes are you concocting in that clever mind of yours?”

“Not a scheme. But perhaps the start of a plan.” Lestrade watches him, clearly hoping for more of an explanation but he doesn't ask. He allows Mycroft to walk along in silence, listening to the birds and the breeze through the undergrowth.

“My drawings have always been exact rather than inspired, precise rather than moving,” Mycroft says after a few more quiet steps. “I think I would make an excellent cartographer.”

“You plan to measure and chart the unknown?” Lestrade's brown eyes catch the light, tinting them a dark golden honey as he looks over. In that instant, he is breathtakingly beautiful.

Mycroft looks to his feet to recover his thoughts. “I plan to copy your maps. With good parchment and ink, with a ruler and a protractor, I could make a copy that would be accurate to the original, and sell it for an attractive profit.”

“It sounds like a lot of hours bent over a table, staring at pages.” Clearly, Lestrade prefers the idea of being out of doors, prefers the fresh salt air on his face and the hot sting of sunshine on his skin. While Mycroft may prefer the captain's company on deck, he has never minded bookwork or spending time indoors.

“It would give me a source of income,” Mycroft says, words slowing with his steps. “A way to be certain Sherlock is fed and clothed, no matter what happens to the Lydia.”

Lestrade stops walking. He steps closer and rests a hand on Mycroft's elbow. “No matter what happens, I'll take care of him. I promise, Fancy. Like he was my own kin.”

The assurance is earnest and sweet, bursting warm in Mycroft's chest. Mycroft finds himself resting a hand over Gregory's, holding closer than good manners should allow in public. “If something should happen to you, this gives me options. And in the meantime, it allows me my pride.”

***

Sherlock strides into the navigation room, takes one look at the parchment, inks and charts spread across the table, and says, “A practical solution, I suppose.”

“Nothing else to say, brother mine?”

“The captain sent me to tell you he’s on the quarterdeck if you wanted to join him,” Sherlock repeats carefully, clearly annoyed at being sent as the messenger. From the rope caught on the edge of his shoes and the few loose strands of hair, Sherlock had been up in the rigging before this.

“Adjusting the sails?”

“Reviewing the tension from a round turn and two half hitches,” Sherlock says, impatient and eager to return. Watson’s probably still up there now. “We’re setting the sails to see if it works better than the rolling hitch.”

Only his brother could fill his leisure hours by climbing up masts and tying various knots just to see how well they each work. At least Mycroft can be grateful that he’s not wasting his time at one of the taverns.

The thought occurs to Mycroft that it’s a good sign. With a week to explore an island he’s never seen before, by the fifth day Sherlock prefers to be back on the ship, carrying out experiments to discover what can be improved and what hasn’t yet been tried. Given days of absolute freedom, he is here.

“Would you consider,” Mycroft suggests calmly, as gently as he would suggest a tactic correction to a very touchy Commodore, “pledging to stay on the Lydia?”

Sherlock looks him over from head to foot, searching for insight into Mycroft’s unusual request. “A pirate shouldn’t be bound to only one ship.”

“Did you plan on leaving?”

“A pirate shouldn't be bound by plans, either.”

Mycroft looks to the heavens for patience. “But would you consider giving your word? Agree to stay and serve for a certain number of years?”

“Why?” Sherlock's tone is suspicious. “What do you attempt to gain by chaining me to the Lydia?”

“I am not trying to chain you to anything, Sherlock. I am simply--” Mycroft forces a slow breath in and makes himself breathe it out slowly as well. “It would put my mind at rest to know your intentions. To know if the Lydia can be considered home for few years or if we shall have to leave it.”

“We?” Sherlock frowns. He blinks twice and then asks, “What do you mean by ‘we’?”

“I mean the two of us.”

“Why would you come?” Sherlock seems genuinely puzzled by the idea. “You're barely a sailor now. I don't fancy your chances of finding another ship's captain who'll let you sketch all day and only bother with a few minutes work.”

“You are not yet seventeen. It would be remiss of me to let you go into the word alone.”

“So you're resolved to follow? Even if I do not need you? Even if I do not want you there?”

Mycroft frowns at Sherlock's outburst. “It would be my duty as your elder brother.”

“Poor Lestrade.” Sherlock tilts his head to the side, frowning in false sympathy. “Does he know you're only occupying your time until you change ships?”

For an instant, Mycroft wants to throw something at him. He wants to pick something up and inflict physical damage. The urge passes in a blink of an eye. Mycroft stands, unsettled by the uncharacteristic anger, and walks around the large table.

He knows Sherlock is young and sheltered, and he does understand how much Sherlock must struggle to understand Mycroft's feelings. At that age, Mycroft wouldn't have believed it either. He certainly wouldn't have looked at Sherrinford and ever assumed his choices were motivated by love. 

“I said it was my duty to follow you.” Mycroft's voice is calm. “I never said it was my desire.”

“No?” Sherlock doesn't believe him.

“I would stay on the Lydia as long as Lestrade is her captain,” Mycroft says plainly.

Sherlock looks away, considering the statement. Mycroft allows him time to think.

“I'm certainly not promising that,” Sherlock says eventually.

“I'm not asking forever, Sherlock. Just a set number of years.”

“How many?”

“Until you're twenty-one.”

“Eighteen,” Sherlock replies hotly. “I'm not giving you power over the next five years of my life.”

“Twenty.”

“Nineteen.”

“Twenty,” Mycroft repeats, “and I will not follow you if you leave. I'll give you what funds I can and you may go where you please.”

“I'll consider it.”

Mycroft stifles the sigh he wants to give. He knows Sherlock will keep his word if it’s freely given, but that means giving Sherlock the option to refuse. “It's only three and a half years, brother mine. You’ve said yourself you’re in no hurry to leave.”

“I’ll think about it,” Sherlock promises, but his expression is too wary and calculating for Mycroft to hold much hope.

***

Mycroft likes to think of himself as a patient man, but that is not always true where Sherlock is involved. He distracts himself by copying maps onto empty parchment but it grates on his nerves. Every time he hears Sherlock’s violin sing along to a cheerful shanty, he finds his fists clenching. He keeps himself seated, certain that forcing Sherlock to hurry his choice will draw out Sherlock’s least helpful urges, but it is a frustrating time.

He sees Sherlock on deck, sitting beside Watson, thread and needle carefully in hand as he embroiders his new coat. He sees the pair of them scurrying up the rigging, tying off sails or simply walking along the highest yards they can reach, pointing over the island and laughing. He sees them in small circles of sailors, rum passed along as the men sing and Sherlock stands behind, drawing music from his violin.

In short, every time Mycroft looks he finds Sherlock enjoying his time aboard the Lydia, yet he won’t commit to staying.

The first time Lestrade notices Mycroft’s irritation, Mycroft blames the heat of the day and the brightness of the sun. Lestrade is all sympathy, suggesting he sit below decks for a while, and Mycroft uses the excuse to isolate himself in the navigation room, trying to focus his restless unease into some form of productivity.

The men vote to take their winnings to another pirate port -- a larger town with a greater variety of taverns, apparently -- but even returning to the routine of sailing can’t calm Mycroft’s mind. He has tried to draw Sherlock on the subject, even just to understand Sherlock’s reasoning, but Sherlock will only fold his arms across his chest and refuse to give a decision.

Uncharitably, Mycroft finds himself wondering if Sherlock is enjoying drawing this out, if he’s taking a perverse pleasure in dangling Mycroft’s future in his hands. It’s an unkind assumption to make and unworthy of both of them, but the decision seems an obvious one to Mycroft and he doesn’t understand Sherlock’s delay.

Lestrade declares him “decidedly prickly” after a few short words over an inaccurate chart, and Mycroft knows it’s true. He is ill-tempered and unwilling to be pleased. He considers tracking Sherlock down and forcing an answer, but he knows that will end badly. Instead, he works until the sun sets and then goes down to apologise to Gregory.

Gregory is sitting at the table in his cabin, pulling apart a freshly baked roll with his fingers. He raises an eyebrow at Mycroft’s entrance but his expression isn’t angry or offended.

“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” The words come out easier than Mycroft expected.

“Sit,” Gregory says, far more fondly than Mycroft’s conduct deserves. “Eat. Then tell me what’s weighing on your mind.”

The bread rolls smell delicious as Mycroft cuts one open. He takes a bite and finds they’re still warm inside. He possibly makes an appreciative noise when he swallows because Gregory looks decidedly amused. 

“Next time, I’ll remember to bring fresh bread when making an apology,” Gregory says, taking a sip of his wine.

“That would make fresh bread too rare a treat.”

They both fall silent as they eat. It’s a comfortable silence, the safe kind of quiet that Mycroft relaxes into until the tension melts from his spine. He is putting too much weight on one decision from Sherlock, foolishly trying to secure affection he already knows is his. There’s no way he can look at Gregory, at his fond smile and dark tempting eyes, and doubt his regard.

“I’m sorry I’ve been ill-tempered of late.”

“I assume it’s to do with your brother,” Gregory says, canny and a little too knowing. Mycroft is so used to be being surrounded by fools that he occasionally forgets how clever the captain is.

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s the only one who can inspire such deeply felt frustration in you.”

Mycroft doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but he knows it’s true. Sherlock stirs an uncomfortable amount of emotion in him, which is not to say he doesn’t feel as much for Gregory, but Gregory settles where Sherlock disrupts. Gregory’s presence is calm and safe, and alone with him, Mycroft feels soothed and reassured.

“Indirectly,” Mycroft allows. “The blame lies with me. I believe I made an unreasonable request of him and now I’m bothered that he won’t agree easily.”

“Did you ask for his help with your charts?”

“No, nothing like that. That’s well within my abilities.” The task is detailed and meticulous, but something Mycroft finds himself enjoying when he allows himself to focus solely on the lines and curves beneath his quill. “I asked for a promise, that’s all.”

Gregory reaches out to trace the back of Mycroft’s hand. His fingers are warm and dry on Mycroft’s skin, the touch mindless and signifying nothing more than Gregory’s fondness. “What promise?”

It seems like a foolish thing in hindsight. It had seemed such an easy solution at the time -- a way of managing duty and love, and sparing himself from ever choosing between them -- but now it seems selfish. A greedy, grasping temptation he should have been able to resist.

“I wanted…” Mycroft says, but the words refuse to come. He wanted to accept Gregory; he wanted Gregory to be his in the eyes of God and man. He wanted to pledge his love on a ring and swear to love him through this life and whatever comes after it. He does not have poetry in his soul. He is not a flatterer, cannot charm and romance with pretty words, but he'd wanted Gregory to know. To know that Mycroft wanted him, to know that Mycroft was his in thought, deed and intention, in heart, mind and soul.

He still wants it. He wants it enough to know he can wait a few more years if he must. He can learn patience.

“I asked for his word that he would stay on the Lydia until he was nineteen,” Mycroft confesses, reaching for his own wine glass simply to give him something to do. “It’s a large promise to make at such an age. I shouldn’t have asked.”

He turns the wine glass in his fingers, watching the dark red liquid move around the glass. He expects Gregory will make a joke, some gently teasing remark and let the subject drop. He should count himself lucky that Gregory has never vied for his attention, has never shown any jealousy towards Mycroft's attachment to Sherlock.

“Would that--” Gregory's voice is rough. Mycroft glances over in surprise, sees Gregory swallow and start again. “Would that be enough? Your brother's word?”

“He has his flaws but Sherlock does not lack honour,” Mycroft replies. “He'd keep his promise.”

Gregory bites his bottom lip, an unconscious sign of struggle. “Did he refuse?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “He hasn't answered either way.”

“Has he said why?”

“He won't discuss it. It makes no sense.” Mycroft does not say what he suspects: that Sherlock is simply being contrary for the sake of it. That he thinks this promise is solely motivated by Mycroft's worries and therefore a prime target for teasing. “He's happy on the Lydia and there's no reason why he wouldn't be happy here in two or three years time.”

“I can see one reason,” Gregory says, starting to smile. “John Watson.”

“I doubt Watson could make Sherlock's life miserable on this ship.”

“If he left Sherlock behind, he would.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “For the sake of a friend, he'd leave the ship?” he scoffs, even if he suspects Sherlock might. Sherlock has always been impetuous and prone to rash, unconsidered decisions.

“I doubt they'll be friends in three years, Fancy.”

Mycroft hasn't seen any sign if a disagreement between the two. They may race along the rigging, calling out jibes to one another, and Watson may occasionally stare askance at Sherlock's declarations (when he's not watching Sherlock in indulgent fascination), but Mycroft hasn't seen any signs of true argument between them. “What makes you think they'll fall out?”

Bewilderingly, Gregory laughs. “Let me rephrase. I doubt they'll only be friends in three years.”

The idea is preposterous. “Sherlock's too young to form such an attachment. He should be in school right now, not-- Not--”

“Not finding someone who thinks he's astounding and spending as much time as possible with them?” Gregory asks with obvious amusement. “If it makes you feel better, Fancy, I don't think either of them has any inkling yet. But eventually one of them will realise what it means.”

***

The thought plays on his mind that night. It seems irreconcilable with his little brother, the boy who scoffed at the necessity of coming out into society. Who would spend balls at Musgrave Hall standing beside Mycroft, snidely noting who was aiming at marriage with whom, which parents approved and disapproved, whose attentions were returned or ignored.

He can't help but think of Sherlock at eleven, pulling faces at Mycroft as Mycroft was forced to dance with any man who'd ask him or any woman Sherrinford deemed an appropriate possibility. It had been a game between them. For Sherlock, the challenge of not being spotted by the other adults. For Mycroft, to keep a serious expression and meet his partner's eyes while watching Sherlock's misbehaviour from his peripheral vision. It had made those endless balls bearable, that season of being paraded like Sherrinford’s latest prize horse and secretly relieved as the weeks went by and his dance card became emptier.

Sherlock had been his quiet supporter, the one person in the crowd who thought marriage was a boring proposition compared to going away to school or working in London.

It's hard to imagine that boy being besotted by anyone. Then again, Sherlock is not that child any longer.

“Go to sleep, Fancy,” Gregory grumbles behind him. “You're thinking too loudly.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Mycroft says but he lets Gregory pull him closer, skin to skin beneath the light blanket.

“We'll deal with it in the morning,” Gregory replies. “When it's daylight.”

That should be enough for Mycroft. He should close his eyes and sleep, but… “Do you really think Sherlock holds romantic hopes for Watson?”

Gregory smothers a yawn against Mycroft's shoulder, scrubbing at his eyes. “I could be wrong, Fancy. But regardless, he clearly holds John in high regard. If John stays, Sherlock's likely to as well.”

“I'm all for encouraging Sherlock to stay, but are you sure Watson--” Gregory's hand lands over his mouth and Mycroft stops talking in surprise.

“We'll ask in the morning,” Gregory says, tired and a little grumpy. He pulls his hand away, fingers ghosting over Mycroft's cheek. “Now sleep. Please.”

Mycroft doesn't think he can but Gregory rolls onto his back and pulls him close, tugs at him until Mycroft's head is settled on his chest. Mycroft listens to the wheeze of air in his lungs; the gurgles and noises of a living body as Gregory's chest moves with steady breaths. His heartbeat seems as regular as the waves rocking the ship, as reliable as the wood creaking around them. It's a soothing lullaby crooned in the dark.

***

Mycroft wakes late the next morning and dresses alone. He eats breakfast and ties his cravat twice before he's happy with it, and then heads above decks. Lestrade is already there, talking to Williams and casting a careful eye over the sails.

Mycroft nods a greeting to a few of the men he passes on his way to the quarterdeck. He holds back, standing near the starboard side until the captain's finished his conversation.

“Sleep well?” Lestrade asks after leaving Williams in charge of the ship. He stands beside Mycroft and the creases in his collar suggest he's been awake and dressed for hours.

“Yes, thank you.”

“They're in the infirmary.” Lestrade doesn't have to specify who he means: Sherlock and Watson. In the light of day, Mycroft has his doubts that Watson's influence will sway Sherlock sufficiently. He hopes Lestrade is right.

When they get to the infirmary, Lestrade asks John to step outside to discuss something. He doesn't insist John close the door behind him, giving Sherlock an easy way to eavesdrop. Sherlock immediately carries a tray of glass jars to the cupboard closest to the open door. He seems to be focused on reordering the vials on the shelf, but Mycroft's certain he's only there to listen.

“You wanted to see me, captain?” Watson asks, looking straight ahead. He doesn't even glance back in Sherlock's direction, suggesting he's well aware of what Sherlock's doing.

“I wanted to talk to you about Doctor White.” Lestrade gives a brief nod and then adds, “He's been talking more about his brother's village in Cornwall. About setting up a small practice there.”

“He's mentioned the idea,” Watson says, in a tone that suggests he hadn't thought much of it beyond the conversation. He glances at Mycroft, but Mycroft stays silent. This conversation is best left between him and the captain.

“We haven't come to any arrangements yet and it's not likely to happen for another year or so, but we'll need a new surgeon when he goes.” The captain leans in closer, resting a hand on Watson's shoulder and dropping his voice. “Doctor White thinks you're just about ready to take the post on.”

Watson snaps to attention as if he's still in the Royal Navy. “I'm flattered that he thinks so, sir.”

“I heard good things from the Liberty and the men you treated there,” Lestrade says, “but think about it. It's a share and a half, but it's a bloody job. If you don't want it, we've got time to find another doctor.”

“And if I do?” Watson asks.

“I'd want you to sign the charter, pledge to stay on the Lydia for four years. Gives Doctor White the time to teach you anything you need to know. Gives us some breathing space so we know we've got a sawbones who'll be around for a while.” Lestrade says it all as if it's perfectly logical, and his sole motivation is the welfare of the crew. “Take a few days. Think about it.”

***

Mycroft's completely unsurprised when Sherlock stops by the navigation room later that day, catching Mycroft alone.

“Did you know?” Sherlock asks suspiciously, and needlessly clarifies, “Did you know Lestrade would offer John the position?”

“Of course.” It's an easy thing to draw his brows together, to flatten his mouth as if Sherlock is asking something obvious. “He mentioned it to me a while ago.”

Sherlock watches him closely, but he's never been able to tell when Mycroft was lying. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I'm not the captain. I have no authority to offer the role.”

“Then why did you ask me to stay on?”

“It's not a crime to reduce the uncertainty in one's future. If I'd realised your decision was dependent upon Watson--”

“It's not dependent,” Sherlock argues hotly, taking a step closer and then not knowing what to do. “It simply casts the request in a different context.”

He means: this is about more than Mycroft trying to restrict Sherlock's freedom and ruin his fun. If other pirates are signing on for longer, Sherlock will be amenable. “You'll agree to stay?”

“John and I just signed the charter,” Sherlock says, revealing the most useful information with the most frustrating timing. “Four years.”

“And you couldn't have started the conversation with that?”

“You wouldn't have answered my questions if you already had what you wanted,” Sherlock replies. Mycroft's self-aware enough to admit he might be right. “So now that's settled, what are your plans?”

Sherlock already knows the answer. “To stay on the Lydia as long as Gregory is her captain.”

“And to sell maps when he grows tired of you?” The words are not kind but Sherlock holds his elbows awkwardly. Mycroft can read the caring beneath the jibe.

“To sell maps, yes.” Mycroft almost leaves the next thought unsaid; somehow he finds the courage to say the words, to risk showing his hand. “To marry him.”

Sherlock snorts, the idea ridiculous to a younger sibling. “You think he'll marry you? How are you possibly going to manoeuvre him into that?”

“I don’t need to.”

Mycroft sits there, allows Sherlock to look his fill until Sherlock slowly announces, “He’s already asked you.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock tilts his head, thinking and realigning his assumptions. He doesn’t ask Mycroft for details, thank heavens, but instead says, “You should ask him to marry you.”

It wasn’t the reaction Mycroft had expected. “He’s the captain. I doubt any captain is another man’s spouse.”

“Wouldn’t matter amongst the crew. They don’t care about legalities.” Sherlock seems certain of the crew’s opinion; Mycroft doesn’t know the men well enough to have gained any insight on the topic. “Sherrinford may not have any heirs. Better you inherit than our third cousin twice removed.”

Mycroft mentally reviews their family tree. As far as he knows, Sherlock is right. According to the entail -- since Sherlock clearly doesn’t want it -- the next in line to inherit Musgrave Hall would be their paternal third cousin. “I’ll have to discuss that with the captain,” Mycroft says and Sherlock’s satisfied enough to leave him in peace. 

***

Mycroft intends to stay and continue working on his map. They should arrive in port in five days and he'd planned to have it ready to sell. Yet he keeps finding himself staring at his quill with no idea what he should be drawing. Keeps finding himself in starstruck awe at the wealth of possibilities before him. There are things to be discussed, yes, but they're all details. Whatever is agreed, Mycroft knows it won't change the truly astounding fact: that he will marry Gregory.

No matter when or where or how, he knows it will happen. There is nothing holding him back, no responsibility drowning all but the slimmest hopes for his future. No obligation hanging over his head, forcing him to settle for a fleeting brush with happiness. 

He can keep a watchful eye over Sherlock and be free to marry Gregory. Honestly, it's so much good news that Mycroft doesn't know what to do with it.

He tries to bring his focus back to the current chart but finds himself staring out at the horizon, wondering if there will be a church at the next port. If he'll get a quick sale on this map and be able to buy a new coat for the wedding. If Gregory would care if Mycroft wore the same brown travelling suit he's worn for weeks.

Mycroft can recognise a losing battle when he sees it. He packs up his supplies and goes out on deck. The captain is standing on the quarterdeck, shoulders back while the wind toys with a few loose strands of his hair. Mycroft needs a moment -- to watch him, to truly see him, to bask in the warmth of knowing that the captain will be his -- before he climbs up the stairs to stand beside him.

“We're making good time,” the captain says, voice raised to be heard over the wind.

“So I see.”

“At this rate,” Lestrade says, leaning closer with a teasing smile, “I'll wed you within the week.”

Mycroft raises a hand to hide the giddy smile caused by those words; he can't hide the pleased blush on his cheeks. He looks away and says, “There are a few details we'll need to discuss first.”

Lestrade steps closer, one hand so bold as to cup Mycroft's cheek and run a gentle thumb across the skin. “But you accept? You'll be mine, Fancy?”

“I've been yours for so long,” Mycroft says unsteadily. It feels like the heat of the day has gone to his head.

Lestrade catches Mycroft's hands in his. “Then marry me.”

“Yes. As soon as possible.”

***

The afternoon passes in a pleasant haze of sunshine and sharp winds. Mycroft settles on deck with his sketchbook but doesn't draw much of anything. The pages have a few sketches of Gregory's hands -- folded behind his back as he stands, loosely curled around the worn, smooth wood of the wheel, pointing aloft at one of the sails -- but it's all piecemeal work. A way of looking occupied while he floats within his happiness.

It's an agreeable day, but he's still pleased to hear Gregory hand the ship over to Williams and bid Mycroft follow him downstairs.

The second the door closes behind them, Gregory presses him back against the wood, crowding close and kissing him. He can feel Gregory smiling into the kiss. His hands are restless, sliding from Mycroft’s jaw to his shoulders to finally curl around the back of his neck.

Mycroft leans into the door, letting it take his weight as he pulls back enough to chide, “Gregory.”

“Yes?”

Gregory presses a kiss beneath Mycroft’s jaw. Another to the side of his neck. It makes it difficult for Mycroft to pull his thoughts into words. “There are matters we should discuss.”

“Like the quickest way to get you out of these?” Gregory asks, sliding a confident hand over the front of Mycroft’s breeches.

Mycroft gasps, his hips hitching towards the light pressure. It would be so easy to give in, to let Gregory lead him to bed and strip down his barriers one by one. But this is a conversation that would be better when clothed, and he’d rather clear the air as soon as possible.

He gently tugs at Gregory’s wrist, and Gregory lets him guide his hand away.

“You want to talk first.” Gregory sounds resigned to it. “Can we discuss it in bed?”

“It might be better to sit at the table.” Mycroft glances at the bed tucked into the wall, the dark blue curtains hanging around it. Climbing out of the bed, over another body, makes it difficult to perform a graceful exit from the conversation.

“I might not like what you have to say?”

Sometimes, he appreciates Gregory’s powers of perception. “Possibly. I can’t be sure.”

“If I’m not going to like it,” Gregory whispers a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek, “at least let me hold you while you tell me.”

Somehow, Mycroft ends up in his shirt and breeches, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He feels both overdressed and underdressed, too much for this bed and too little for this conversation. Gregory merely shuffles backwards until he’s sitting against the wall, and then pats the space beside him.

Mycroft kneels up and crawls over to him. He sits down beside Gregory, but can’t quite get comfortable until Gregory’s arm is around his shoulders. “My older brother has no heirs.” He doesn’t talk about Sherrinford much. It’s superstitious, but it feels safer not to mention him, not to share childhood stories or adult observations.

“Go on, Fancy.”

“The estate is entailed to the next husband in my father’s line. At this point, that would be my third cousin.” Mycroft looks down at his own pale legs, the knobby knees and the scattering of freckles from childhood. He still has scars on his knees from falling down when he was very small and rather clumsy. “If I was to marry you, if you were my husband, I could never inherit.”

“Fancy?” Gregory asks carefully, and his voice is far more worried than it should be.

“We're going to be married,” Mycroft says quickly. “That’s not under discussion. But I would prefer you married me.”

“Be your spouse?”

Finding the courage to look over, Mycroft notes Gregory’s drawn brows and tilted head. He seems confused by the very suggestion. “I know it’s unreasonable to ask, but I loved Musgrave Hall as a child and if something happened to Sherrinford years from now… I’d hate to think of it in a stranger’s hands. It's a contingency and it might never be useful -- Sherrinford may have sons to inherit -- but a decision now will have consequences in years to come.”

“Why would that be unreasonable?” Gregory asks slowly. “You’re the son of a lord.”

“The second son,” Mycroft points out. 

“And I’m the son of a farmer.”

Mycroft nods because Gregory’s told him this story: how he was working the farm and luckily happened to be in the field as a spooked horse came thundering through. That he whistled sharply enough to distract it, and was able to catch the young lady as she fell off. That her father was an admiral who showed his appreciation through a midshipman posting in the Royal Navy. 

Gregory always downplays his heroics in the story, always focuses on the generosity of the admiral. Mycroft believes the story a perfect illustration of Gregory’s character; even as a young boy, he thought of others and fearlessly took whatever action he deemed necessary. “You’re the captain.”

“Is that--? Oh, Fancy.” Gregory swiftly wraps his arms around Mycroft, dragging him up and over until he’s sitting astride Gregory’s legs. Chest to chest, with Gregory’s arms around his back, Mycroft finds himself kissed soundly. “No one onboard will care, and I think Captain Gregory Holmes has a good sound to it.”

It’s certainly pleasing to Mycroft’s ear. “Are you certain?”

“It makes no difference to me,” Gregory says, hands rubbing a slow path up and down Mycroft's back. “But someday it may make a difference to you. As long as you're mine and I'm yours, the rest is only details.”

***

When dark clouds are seen on the horizon, the Lydia changes course, veering away from their heading. Mycroft doesn't understand why until he goes up on deck and sees the dark grey clouds now covering half the sky.

“It'll be a rough one,” Gregory says, worried eyes watching the approaching storm. “You'd best go down to the cabin. We'll chart a new course when we're clear.”

Through the cabin window, Mycroft watches the weather turn. It starts with the wind picking up, the sea becoming choppy, white foam on the dark blue-black of waves. The rain begins with a few heavy drops and then becomes a constant downpour, making the horizon hazy. Between the rain and the crashing waves, Mycroft can't hear the rest of the ship. There's no comforting background noise of footsteps and yelled orders; no sound but the storm outside and the ship creaking loudly under the strain.

The ship rocks, tipping side to side as the waves get larger. The lantern hooked above him sways against the movement, causing shadows to shift and blur.

When he creeps out of the cabin to look around, below decks is almost deserted. There are a few of the younger crew huddled near the steps, boys of no more than thirteen, but they're standing over ropes and pulleys, clearly waiting for orders to bring them up on deck.

The ship heaves up on one side and Mycroft skids a few feet across the floor. He's barely considered the decision before he's taking the steps up to the deck to see what's happening.

Everything is wet and loud. The whole world seems tinted into pewter grey, the sun trapped behind dark clouds and turning the afternoon to dusk. There are lanterns attached to the rigging, swinging wildly but giving enough light to see through the pouring rain. A wave crashes on the starboard side, a white spray of water sent over the deck and the ship lurches at the impact.

Mycroft stays on the steps, hands tight around the railing as he looks around. There’s no horizon around them, just the pouring rain and endless grey. He knows from the charts that there’s nothing around them; no islands or rocks to avoid. As long as no other ship comes near them -- and Gregory and Williams took this course to avoid other vessels, so that’s unlikely -- they only need to wait out the storm.

There are men at the wheel and men at the shrouds, men hunkering against the rain and holding on to various ropes to keep their footing. Gregory and Williams stand on the quarterdeck, shouting something that can’t be heard over the noise of the storm. There are a half dozen men around them, and three of them hurry across the deck to relay the message.

Mycroft ignores the water pelting his shoulders and soaking into his jacket, watching as the messages get relayed to the men standing by the rigging. Those men climb the ratlines, passing the message up in stages until it’s relayed up to the men perched along the yardarms. There are more men up in the rigging, Mycroft realises. His stomach lurches as the ship moves beneath them, yet the crew hold their balance. No one plummets to the deck in this wild weather.

The men along each yardarm heave at ropes, pulling up the sails. The mizzen sails are already retracted, tied neatly to avoid the strong storm winds. So are the top sails on each mast. As Mycroft watches, the foresails are slowly pulled up, each man tugging at a rope and tying it off to support the weight of the wet canvas.

He holds a hand above his eyes to keep the rain off and looks carefully along the yardarms. He’s searching for Sherlock’s dark hair and dark coat, or even Watson’s smaller frame, but he can’t make out either of them on the foremast. He takes a few steps on deck, one arm wrapped around the staircase railing, and looks up along the mainmast. He sees them on the upper yardarm, Watson near the mast and Sherlock further along, shoulders hunched over the ropes. There are other men clinging to the rigging below them, but Sherlock and Watson are the only two perched on the wooden yard, legs wrapped around it and crossed at the ankles.

The waves swell beneath them and the entire ship tilts to port, and Sherlock would overbalance if not for Watson’s hand twisted in the back of his coat, his other arm holding to the mast. Mycroft catches his breath, terrified, but Sherlock keeps working, pulling at the ropes.

Mycroft watches another relay of messengers scurry up and down the ropes, the last unfortunate one climbing up to yell something to Watson. There’s yelling and pointing, nothing that Mycroft can make out, and the messenger scurries back down, passing a reply back to the man below him. Whatever it is, Gregory isn’t pleased to hear it when it gets back to the quarterdeck. He makes a slashing movement with one hand, a gesture lost to Sherlock behind this curtain of rain, but it catches Mycroft’s attention.

He looks closer at the line Sherlock’s working on, the tension running all the way down to the mainsail. The mainsail is still catching the strong winds, pulling the ship from side to side in the storm. The men on the lower yardarm have started to retract it, started to pull it up, except for one line of rope. When Mycroft follows it up, he sees it knotted into the one Sherlock’s working on.

With the mainsail catching these winds, they risk capsizing. Under this strain of this weather, there’s a higher chance of tearing the sail or the mainmast breaking, falling across the deck and tearing down their rigging with it. The sails need to be pulled up -- a heavy job in this weather, working against wet canvas and strong winds -- but the knotted ropes are holding one edge down. It’s too much for the men to pull against.

Mycroft thinks. Thinks about the weight of the sail and the pressure of the winds. The layout of the rigging, and Sherlock showing him where the lines intersected. The remaining rope lines, the pressure and weight that would be distributed to each, the number of men along the yardarm. The cost of failure if he’s wrong.

Then he steps back below decks, yelling at the boys for a knife sharp enough to cut rope. One ruddy-faced boy gives him one -- sharp blade with a big handle, awkward in his hands -- and Mycroft takes a second to hope he’s right, and then steps up onto the wet deck.

He rushes to the starboard side, but the ship lurches again and his shoes slip, and he finds himself falling and sliding towards the side railing, dropping the knife as he tries to balance. A wave hits the side, splashing him in seawater, leaving him spluttering and dropping to his knees. He crawls, reaching for the knife again and this time tucks it inside his waistcoat.

Standing, he holds fast to the wooden railing. In a graceless stumble, he makes his way to the base of the rigging, where the shrouds meet the outside of the deck. He pulls two of the messengers close, yells, “The captain! Tell him we’ll cut the buntline,” to one, and waits until he’s run across the deck, more sure-footed than Mycroft could ever be.

To the other, he points up to the upper yard. “Sherlock! Tell Sherlock to free the block!” He should have asked Sherlock for the names of the blocks in the rigging. He doesn’t know the term but he has to hope that Sherlock will make the connection to the correct one.

He pushes his wet hair back from his forehead and carefully counts along the lines, finding the right rope. He holds on to it, hoping the plan is obvious to Sherlock, then looks up. Sherlock is still pulling at the ropes, trying to free the line from above so the lower rope can still be used to lift the mainsail. Again, there’s a relay up the rigging, the message passed from one man to the next, until it’s yelled up to Watson. 

Sherlock stops as Watson calls out, and then looks over at Watson. They yell something back and forth, something that Mycroft can’t hear above the creaking of the ship and the water hitting the deck, and then Sherlock looks down. There’s recognition on his face as he sees Mycroft, and then he nods.

Sherlock twists on the beam, overbalancing sideways in a sudden lurch that’s too fast for Watson to grab him. Mycroft lets out a ghastly animal noise of fear, but Sherlock keeps his calves around the beam, ankles locked as he pulls out a knife and cuts the rope free, using the weight of the sails to hold the rope steady as he slices.

Mycroft stands there, frozen to the spot as the line falls loose. As Sherlock tucks away the knife and reaches one hand up blindly, grasping onto Watson to pull himself upright again. Mycroft’s heart is still pounding in his chest as Sherlock stares down at him, making an impatient gesture with his hand. A clear signal for Mycroft to do his part.

Mycroft waits until the pair of them are on the rigging and starting to climb down before he pulls out his borrowed knife. He holds on to the line tightly and saws at the rope, leaning against the swaying movement of the ship, ignoring the water running down his neck. With the strain on the sail holding the line tight, it’s done by the time Sherlock and Watson have climbed to the lower yard, passing messages to the men sitting along either side.

Once cut, Mycroft grabs hold of the rope and pulls hard. The whole thing comes free with a sudden jolt, and Mycroft lands back on the deck, sprawled out and winded. Above him, the mainsail starts lifting, men heaving it up into position. There's an extra strain with one less rope to hold the weight, but it holds. Mycroft watches the whole canvas slowly rise and be safely tied away.

There are hands on Mycroft’s arms, pulling him to his feet. Pryce to his left, and on his right, it’s Gregory with an expression darker than the weather around them. “Get below decks before you’re washed overboard,” Gregory growls, but his hand on Mycroft’s arm is steady and careful.

“The rigging can be fixed later,” Mycroft points out calmly. They have more ropes in the storeroom, after all.

“The rigging can go to damnation,” Gregory bites back and oh, it’s not anger. It’s fear in Gregory’s voice. Fear for Mycroft. “Go below and stay there. Please.”

***

It’s almost another hour before Gregory comes down to the cabin. In that time, Mycroft has been able to change out of his wet clothes and spread them out to dry. He’s wearing his own shirt but out of necessity borrowed a pair of loose linen trousers from Gregory’s drawers. He’s quite sure it’s the same pair he once wore for visiting pirate captains. He clearly remembers sitting in Gregory’s lap, trying to ignore those warm arms around him and pay attention to their plans.

Outside, the sky has lightened to pale silver and the rain has gentled. The ship has settled to a steady rock and her usual quiet creaks.

Gregory steps in dripping from the storm, his hat and coat soaked through. Mycroft doesn't speak but holds his hands out to take the wet items. He hangs them up around the cabin while Gregory strips out of his wet clothes and pulls on a dry shirt. He doesn't put anything else on, Mycroft can't help noticing.

He finds a place to hang the rest of Gregory's clothes as Gregory sits at the table and pours a glass of wine.

“We'll tie the line after the canvas has dried,” Gregory says, and it's something of a truce. He sounds far calmer than he was on deck.

Mycroft takes the seat beside him. “It was the quickest way to protect the ship.”

“It's not that.” He swallows a mouthful of wine and then adds, “I saw you fall.”

“As did most of the crew, I'm sure. Luckily, you love me for reasons beyond physical grace.”

Gregory shakes his head. “I've seen the fever and sleep that comes from cracking your head. I've seen men die of it.” Gregory sighs. He runs a hand through his damp hair, looking away as he scratches the back of his head. “If you'd fallen overboard, in that weather, you would have been lost.”

Mycroft remembers losing his footing, careening towards the railing. He hopes Gregory doesn't know how easily that could have happened. “It had to be done.”

“I agree.” Gregory drums his fingers on the table, still avoiding looking up. “I wouldn’t order any other man to stay below decks. Not in that storm.”

But he’d wanted Mycroft to stay there, to be safe even while the rest of the crew risked their lives to protect the ship. With the benefit of hindsight and time, Mycroft has considered the situation from all angles. There isn’t another course of action that would have worked as quickly without additional risks to the ship and her crew. It had to be done, but it might have been done another way. 

Any of the others could have cut those ropes, once they knew the right line. At the time, Mycroft hadn’t thought of it. He hadn’t thought past the immediate danger to the ship and Sherlock perched so high as the ship heaved back and forth. 

“I didn’t need to cut the rope myself. You’re the ship’s captain. The orders should have come from you.”

Gregory looks up, brows drawn. “I got your message. I understood what you were doing.”

"I saw Sherlock up there and I wanted him down safely, and I didn’t think further than that," Mycroft confesses. The irony of the situation is not lost on him. “Putting myself in harm’s way to protect Sherlock? You were aware of this character flaw before you loved me.”

Gregory smiles, reaching over to cup Mycroft’s cheek in one hand. “Not before,” he says warmly and Mycroft blinks, adjusting their shared history to wonder when Gregory had started to care for him -- earlier than he’d assumed, certainly. “But I can’t claim to be surprised by it.”

"Next time," Mycroft promises, taking Gregory's hand in his, "I’ll send a message to you and save myself a fall."

***

Thankfully the charts keep Mycroft busy for the next few days. He updates the ship's log with their current course and location, plans a new route to offset a day's drifting in the storm, and spends the rest of the time copying Gregory's map. He stays occupied and tries not to let himself imagine calamities that haven't happened yet.

At night, they retire as soon as they've eaten. Gregory is nothing if not an enthusiastic lover, keen to get his hands on bare skin, attentive to every last quiet gasp of Mycroft's. Mycroft feels himself holding a little tighter, grasping and pulling Gregory close, but he manages to avoid voicing anything.

Even when they're two days away from shore and he's kneeling over Gregory, caught between kissing that lush mouth and pressing back into Gregory's hands. There’s a mild ache in his jaw, the taste of Gregory’s completion still on his tongue. There are two strong, talented fingers inside him, pressing in the perfect way to make Mycroft's breath catch, to forget everything but how good it feels.

His cock is hanging hard and heavy between his legs, occasionally dragging along Gregory's stomach as he rocks and squirms against Gregory's hands. Dropping his head to Gregory's shoulder -- strong muscles and tanned skin -- he hears himself muttering, “Please, please,” as his voice becomes broken and breathless.

Finally, Gregory takes pity on him. Wraps a hand around Mycroft's desperate cock and strokes. Those safe hands work him over, inside and out, and all Mycroft can do is surrender to the pleasure. Let it wash over him and carry him away, erupting over Gregory's hand and clenching around his fingers.

Afterwards, wrung out and empty, he has enough awareness to stay silent. To enjoy the scent of Gregory's skin and the solid warmth of his body, and hold his tongue.

***

The night before they reach port, his fears get the better of him. His chart is finished and he's had most of the day to think, to consider possibilities and consequences. To wonder if pursuing what he truly wants is a foolish mistake; if reaching for too much will ruin everything.

It plays on his mind throughout dinner, and Gregory asks if everything is well, and Mycroft fixes his best smile and says, “Yes, of course.”

Gregory gives a low chuckle. “Fancy, you are not a good liar.”

“There's no need to talk of it.”

Gregory is not so easily discouraged. “Will you tell me after dinner?” 

Mycroft knows he should have more faith in the captain. Mycroft knows he's a good and honourable man. Yet he can't help thinking how this entanglement might lose its shine, how an importune marriage might end up feeling like a noose around Gregory's neck.

“I know we talked of marrying within the week,” Mycroft says gently, “but we could postpone.”

“Why would we postpone?”

Mycroft stares at his dinner. He's not hungry in the least, but cutting up his pork gives him something to do. “If you have any doubts. If you wanted time to be certain.”

There’s silence across the table. Mycroft is too great a coward to look up. If Gregory looked relieved, it would be heartbreaking to see.

With everything on his plate cut into small, deliberate pieces, Mycroft forces himself to chew and swallow. He raises his eyes only high enough to reach for his glass.

As he places the glass back on the table, Gregory asks softly, “Do you want to postpone?” and Mycroft doesn't know how honest he should be.

“There's no need to hurry,” he says, and the words sound cold and uncaring. “I'm already in your bed.”

“Do you want to delay?” Gregory asks again.

The truth is both yes and no. He wants Gregory to be his, he wants it so desperately that it terrifies him. He is not the type to be carried away by emotion or desires; he can't find a solid footing when he's caught between holding tight and retreating from the very idea.

“Fancy,” Gregory says, so fond and warm that Mycroft's startled into looking up at him, “do you want to marry me?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says because that is simple. Undeniable. Especially when Gregory reaches out and takes Mycroft's hand in his.

“So why are you fretting?”

“There is no benefit to this marriage. It changes nothing between us, other than tying you to me.” He can't help but remember Sherlock's words. Even knowing that they were only unthinking taunts, Mycroft still finds the idea stuck in his head. What if Gregory meets someone more pleasing? What if this attachment only grew due to circumstance and convenience, what if he grows tiresome and irritating? What if marrying for love and happiness is simply expecting too much?

“No benefit? You mean no money and no connections.” Gregory shakes his head but he keeps hold of Mycroft's hand. “The benefit is tying our futures together, knowing that wherever fortune takes us, we'll go there together.”

Mycroft doesn't know what to say. His doubts seem petty and unfair in the light of such a grand declaration.

“Sleep on it, Fancy. If you want to wait, we'll wait, but don't wait for me to change my mind. It won't happen. The rest of London might be blind, but I see the treasure you truly are.”

When Gregory looks at him like that, it makes Mycroft feel greater than he is, someone strong and inspiring. Someone amazing and brave. But he's still Mycroft Holmes, who needs time to think through a situation, who values quiet and solitude, and can't help but distrust other people's abilities and motivations. He has spent so long being cautious that it's become comfortable. So long guarding his miserly scraps of contentment and being thankful for whatever remained his.

And here is Gregory, who has given Mycroft everything he asked for: solitude and quiet, safety and time. Who has been patient and kind, things that Mycroft would never have thought to ask for.

“I want to marry you,” Mycroft says, nearly choking on the words, “but… Wanting alone does not make something a sensible choice.”

It's easier to close his eyes when Gregory cups his cheek. Easier not to see Gregory's handsome face.

“I'd take my chance,” Gregory says, “even if I mourned it later.”

***

In the light of day, Mycroft regrets saying anything. He wakes to an empty bed and knows -- with a sinking regret -- how pointless his own fears are. He prefers a life that is certain and set, but that is not the life of piracy. He wants a guarantee, something certain to anchor himself against, and when Gregory offers one, he pulls and picks at it until it falls apart.

Sighing at his own folly, he sits up in bed. There's a scrape of a chair pushed back, and Mycroft pulls the curtain aside to find Gregory sitting at the table, dressed and eating breakfast. Or he was. Now he stands and walks over to the bed, resting one knee on it to press a kiss to Mycroft's forehead.

“I'm sorry for what I said last night,” Mycroft says, reaching an arm around Gregory to hold him. He knows he let his fears get the better of him. He knows that Gregory has given him no reason to doubt him; logically, he knows there's no better guarantee that Gregory could make. His fears are illogical and baseless, and he shouldn't pander to them.

“Nerves and cold feet?”

“It scares me,” Mycroft confesses. “How I feel for you. How deeply I feel for you. And I am not a brave man.”

“You're brave, Fancy. I've seen it.”

***

While the crew bring them into port, Mycroft gathers his chart and the pitiful few coins he has left, and readies himself to go ashore. The town is bigger than he'd expected, rising ramshackle from the docks up towards the tree-covered hills. The wooden buildings are crammed together, built according to haste and need rather than fashion or style.

The road leads directly from the port to various stores and taverns, then to the town square. Mycroft passes a church, the white paint peeling from its wooden walls, but he doesn't step inside until he's walking back to the ship, chart sold and purse satisfyingly heavy.

Inside the pews are made of old, bleached wood, so sea-worn they must have been salvaged from a ship. The glass windows are tinted with greens and blues, clearly set by an amateur; the uneven surface of the glass makes the sunlight split and swirl over the aisle. It makes him think of the sea, of the Lydia on ever-moving waves. It feels like an appropriate choice.

When he tells Gregory about it, Gregory agrees to talk to the priest and arrange a wedding for Sunday. Mycroft suggests tomorrow -- they stocked the ship at the last port, there can't be too much for Williams to need immediately -- but Gregory shakes his head and says, “The men like a Sunday wedding.”

“The men?” Mycroft echoes, realising Gregory means the crew. “You wanted to invite the crew?”

“It's a pirate wedding. We don't usually send invitations.” Gregory is too amused by the situation to keep the smile off his face. “Weddings are public celebrations. It's an open invitation.”

Mycroft had assumed it would be small: the two of them, a priest, and two witnesses. Perhaps Sherlock, if he had any interest in coming, but six people was the most he'd expected. “How many will come?”

“I'm the captain, so probably everyone.”

“That's a hundred and forty-three people,” Mycroft says, trying to picture so many in that small church. There wouldn't be an empty pew.

“More,” Gregory says gently. He still seems amused. 

“Who else?”

“There are eight ships in port,” Gregory says. Mycroft saw them when they came in; they all flew black flags of piracy. One might have been the Liberty. “Their captains and the quartermasters, any of their crew that knows ours. And this is a town made of former pirates and their families. People will come.”

“I should have married you in Barbados,” Mycroft mutters and Gregory laughs, promising it will be a good day and saying ridiculous things about the more, the merrier.

“It's always done this way,” Gregory insists. “It's better for the whole crew to know and see it happen. It's how it's done.”

***

And so Mycroft finds himself standing at the altar on Sunday, trying desperately to ignore the loud volume of chatter behind him. Gregory had been right: it seems like every townsperson came. The pews are full of men, women and children, with men three deep standing along the walls, all the way out to the open doors. There are probably more people standing out in the courtyard as well.

Mycroft is staring forward, ignoring the crushing mob of people behind him and trying to ignore as much as he can. Sherlock nudges him with an elbow and he turns to glare, only to find Sherlock lifting his chin towards the priest… who is watching Mycroft in expectant silence.

Mycroft has no idea what the priest was saying.

“Pardon me,” he says, but his voice is more of a creak than intelligible words. He feels Gregory's hand slip into his and clings onto it desperately.

“I, Mycroft Abernathy Holmes,” the priest prompts again and Mycroft has to drag in an unsteady breath to repeat the words. It's a little easier when Gregory rubs his thumb along Mycroft's tense knuckles but he can still feel his fingers clawing into Gregory's as he repeats the words.

When it's done, Mycroft shoots an apologetic grimace at Gregory. Perhaps he should have warned Gregory that he has never liked public speaking. Yet again, he finds himself thinking that this would have been better without the crowd of onlookers.

Gregory smiles warmly in reply and repeats the priest's vows as if he means every word, as if it's merely another promise made to Mycroft over dinner or whispered between them in bed. He watches Mycroft as if there aren't hundreds of eyes on them, as if Mycroft is the most important person in the room.

***

Mycroft had envisioned a quiet, small ceremony, possibly something barely acknowledged by the crew. If anything, he thought the night might end with a quick toast and a glass of wine with their witnesses.

He hadn't expected to walk out of the church past rows of people, to be led to a town square filled with tables and chairs, women bustling around with platters of food and bottles of whisky. 

There's a small table at the front with only two seats. Gregory leads him there with an arm looped through Mycroft's and then sits down.

“Is this normal for a pirate wedding?” Mycroft asks, carefully sitting down on the rickety chair. “It seems very… boisterous.”

“Sometimes they're smaller,” Gregory says, looking around at the crowds sitting where they can, standing when they can't, already reaching for drinks and food, “but they're always loud.”

Mycroft wants to ask more, but they are beset with well-wishers. Williams and Doctor White first, then Pryce and Smithson, Jones and O’Connor, Harvey, Nettles and Richards. There seems to be a line of their own crew, men that Mycroft's seen on the Lydia but never exchanged more than a greeting. It's a stream of “All the best” and “Congratulations” and “Good wishes for the happy pair”.

Gregory thanks them by name and manages a comment back, but Mycroft can only nod and say thank you. It's a relief when Watson's happy face shows up in the line, Sherlock's dark hair over his shoulder.

“Congratulations, Mr Holmes, Captain,” Watson says, grinning.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replies, appreciating a familiar face.

“Yes, well, you know,” Sherlock says and then they step aside to let the next well-wisher through.

After Mycroft has thanked every man who sails the Lydia, the town's mayor stops by and then the captains and quartermasters of the other ships. Even Captain Morris and Quartermaster Simmonds stand at their table, smirking down at Mycroft.

“So, congratulations,” Morris says to Gregory. “No more wildflowers for you, eh?”

Gregory's grin is far too amused. “Just one.”

“I hope he'll have the stomach for ship life,” Morris replies but thankfully they leave without Gregory needing to reply.

Mycroft pitches his voice low, wary of someone else stepping up to their table. “How much longer will this go on?”

“Morris has always been--” Gregory stops when he sees Mycroft's frown. “The party will continue through the night. Probably until dawn.”

That's a horrifying thought. The sun won't set for another two hours. 

“We won't have to stay,” Gregory promises. “Once the music starts, we can leave them to it.”

*** 

The music is fiddles, flute and drum, and it carries across the town square, over the loud chatter of happy conversations. It follows them as they sneak down deserted streets back to the dock, Gregory's hand in his and the pair of them as furtive as schoolboys out after bedtime. 

He still hears the music as he walks the gangplank up to the Lydia's familiar deck. It's a faint song now, the echo of a melody in the dark, as Gregory keeps their hands clasped and walks them below decks, down to their cabin.

The lantern is sitting on the table, already lit. There's a bundle of fabric beside it.

“I know that wasn't comfortable for you.” Gregory slides fingers along Mycroft's cheek, follow them with a kiss and a soft embrace. “But thank you. It was important to me.”

“For some reason, tales of dashing pirate captains never include crowds of pirates at one's wedding.”

“You will have to write to someone and correct that.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, closing his eyes and dropping his forehead to Gregory's shoulder, taking his first free breath in hours. “I clearly should.”

He's not sure how long they stand like that, holding each other in the lamplight, new rings unfamiliar on their fingers. Long enough for Mycroft to realise how tired he is and try to stifle a yawn against the wool of Gregory's coat.

“My dear husband,” Gregory says and Mycroft smiles at the words, “I think it's time for bed.”

***

Mycroft would feel guilty at spending most of the next day in bed, but the entire ship is hushed and still. Gregory says the men will be sleeping off last night's celebrations but Mycroft doesn't rouse himself to confirm it. It's enough that he can't hear footsteps on deck or shouted orders.

He doesn't want to check. He doesn't want to leave the warm safety of Gregory's bed. Well, it's his bed now, legally speaking. His comfortable bed, his dark-eyed spouse curled on his side, lying between Mycroft and the world outside. It's a strange and wondrous thought.

They're lying on their sides, facing each other like a pair of bookends. Beneath the blankets their ankles are pressed together, knees almost touching. The only movement is Gregory's hand, aimlessly brushing over Mycroft's shoulder or arm, cupping the back of his neck or curving around his jaw.

Mycroft turns his head. Just enough to press a kiss to the underside of Gregory's fingers, a soft kiss to the third finger and the new wedding band there.

“I don't want to move,” Gregory says, smiling. It sounds perfectly reasonable to Mycroft. Today is still and quiet; it's not a day for noise and movement. Maybe some movement, Mycroft allows, thinking of Gregory's hands and mouth and the sweet, slow pleasure promised in Gregory's sleepy gaze.

“Then don't.”

“But I have a present for you.”

“A wedding present?” Mycroft asks in dismay. He'd been in town before the wedding and he had funds; he hadn't even thought of buying Gregory a wedding present. He really should have.

There's a tap on the end of Mycroft's nose. “Don't look so sour. It's a present. It should make you smile.”

“I failed to buy you one in return,” Mycroft confesses. “I had the opportunity. I should have.”

“Fancy,” Gregory says warmly, pressing their foreheads together, “you will have years to spoil me with presents. Let me spoil you.”

Gregory kisses him and then climbs out of bed. He leaves the curtain open, so Mycroft can watch his bare form walk over to the table. He finds himself staring at the muscles in Gregory's thighs, the skin so much paler than his back or the deep tan on his forearms.

Gregory looks over his shoulder and grins at him. Mycroft feels himself flush at being caught staring.

He drags his attention back to Gregory's hands, reaching past the platter of bread and cold cuts to lift the fabric bundle that was sitting there last night. He steadies it with a hand beneath -- clearly something heavier inside --- and brings it back to the bed.

Mycroft sits up to open it but he waits until Gregory's settled beside him before peeling back a layer or white cotton edged with delicate lace. His breath catches at the first glimpse of engraved silver. He remembers that pattern in his mother's hands, pulling the brush through her golden hair. 

He pulls back the cotton carefully and there it is: his mother's silver brush and mirror, his father's gold pocket watch, his grandmother's string of pearls.

“Oh,” he says, and “Gregory,” and he can't manage any other words. For a ridiculous moment, Mycroft feels as if he might cry.

“I know you wanted independence,” Gregory says, pushing a strand of hair back from Mycroft's forehead, “but it was silly for you to lose things you cared about.”

Mycroft swallows but his voice is still rough. “I asked Williams once I had the funds, but he'd already sold them.” After Gregory agreed to marry him to allow an inheritance, it seemed practical to ensure he had some proof of his claim. His father's engraved watch would have been enough but by the time he had enough money to purchase it, Williams no longer had it. Mycroft had thought the items long gone, sitting in someone else's house in Barbados.

And here they are. He can't help running greedy fingers over them, remembering every detail by touch and sight. “Thank you.”

“The cravat is yours as well,” Gregory says and Mycroft drags his attention from the items to their wrapping. The cotton is thin and fine, and the lacework is elegant. It is rather lovely and far cleaner than his own.

It also has the advantage of not being maimed by Mycroft's clumsy stitches. “I'll wear it and think of you,” Mycroft replies drily and Gregory laughs.

***

By the time they emerge from the cabin, it's nearly sunset. There are shuffling noises from the deck, footsteps a little quieter than normal and conversations spoken rather than being yelled across the open deck. The men are working on the mainsail, adjusting rigging under Sherlock's exacting supervision.

Mycroft follows Gregory up to the quarterdeck, head down to watch his feet on the steps. After being indoors all day, Gregory had insisted on fresh air and Mycroft is willing to indulge him. They've spent the day lying in bed with the afternoon sunlight dimmed through the curtain, nothing between them but whispered words and soft, drowsy kisses. Hours of slow, gentle touches, holding each other close and touching for the sake of it, exploring and claiming and sharing the stories behind scars. In Gregory's case, that was usually an act of daring adventure, dashing fights or conquering wild weather; in Mycroft's case, tripping in the library and catching his jaw on a table, losing control of a horse and scraping his arm on a stray branch. It has been a day spent in Gregory's steady company, warm in Gregory's arms, learning new information about him and sharing details in return.

If Gregory wants to end the day standing in the fresh sea breezes, watching over his ship as the sky fades from twilight to inky black, Mycroft is happy to stand beside him. There's a hum of activity but it's quiet on the quarterdeck, standing shoulder to shoulder, not saying a word. Mycroft glances sideways to find Gregory watching him, his smile soft and warm. He raises a hand to rest it on Mycroft's back, a small gesture that Mycroft leans into, telling himself no one else would notice it.

He glances away and notices Sherlock watching them from the middle of the ship, head tilted and then quickly turning away to mutter something to Watson. Watson nods back, a fellow conspirator, and Mycroft suspects some mischief is coming. He doesn't expect Watson to turn to the group of men and yell, "Three cheers for Mr Holmes and the captain!"

He certainly doesn't expect the volume of cheering that echoes back. Men cheering "Hurrah!" and stamping their feet, a sudden cacophony of noise that would make Mycroft step back if not for Gregory's firm hand on his back.

"Hurrah!" comes the second call, and Gregory pulls him close, arm wrapped around Mycroft as he grins widely. It's loud and abrasive, but it's a greater sign of welcome than Mycroft had dared expect. "Hurrah!"

There's an impertinent voice -- one Mycroft can't place but he makes a mental note to discover its owner later -- that calls out, "Kiss for the couple!" and gets a roar of laughter and whistles from the crowd.

Mycroft looks to Gregory in outrage, but Gregory's amusement shows that he was clearly expecting this scandalous demand. "Well, Fancy?" he asks, tilting his face up towards Mycroft's.

"Pirates," Mycroft mutters darkly, "are uncouth."

Gregory's laugh is bright and joyous. Amidst all that noise and chaos, he reaches up to press a considerate kiss to Mycroft's cheek. There's a groan of disappointment for the crowd, more jeering and catcalling, but Gregory waves them off. "Back to work, the lot of you," Gregory yells down at them, and there's some good-natured grumbling as the men turn back to their knots.

Sherlock is the last to turn back. For a moment, he holds Mycroft's gaze. He seems as amused by the spectacle as the rest of the crew, but there's something else there, something almost approving. Then he gives a quick nod and turns back to the rigging, striding over to berate O’Connor for his rolling hitch.

"Fancy?" Gregory asks softly, words only meant for Mycroft to hear.

"Yes?" 

"We can go back below decks, if you want."

"No." Gregory is still hugging Mycroft to his side. On any other day, Mycroft would pull back and try to maintain some sense of decency and respectability in public. Those concerns can wait until tomorrow, until he's been married for more than a day. "Let's stay here for a while."


End file.
